


the ways of the stars undone

by oriflamme



Series: robots. robots everywhere [16]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/M, Give Starscream Emotional Support Round 3: This Time It's Personal, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Possession, Rehabilitating Vigilem For Fun and Profit, The Raging Death That Is Arcee, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-21 03:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13732176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oriflamme/pseuds/oriflamme
Summary: Starscream and his new body.Oh, and all his other problems.Liege Maximo's on the loose, Windblade's AWOL, Arcee's on the warpath, Unicron is coming for Cybertron, and nothing - absolutely nothing - seems to run smooth.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU continuation of Til All Are One, because the GI Joe crossovers involved too many pointless humans, and the TAAO Annual was Not Sufficient. The events of the Combiner Wars have been adjusted to prune back the dumb decisions of multiple characters. 
> 
> /cranks the self-indulgence meter up to 11/

_\---_

_The moon has left the sky._

\- [Sappho of Tempo](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Midnight_poem), <<[the ways of the stars](http://swinburnearchive.indiana.edu/swinburne/view#docId=swinburne/acs0000001-01-i034.xml;query=;brand=swinburne)>>

\---

"With the main processor destroyed, Carcer now operates solely via its spark and ancillary processing units," Obsidian says, drumming his disturbing fingers in time with Starscream's tapping stylus.

Starscream squints at his datapad. "Uh huh."

"Thus far, everything appears to be holding stable. However, in the absence of the central processor, restoring Carcer's infrastructure will take time."

"Mmhm." 

Obsidian raises a single finger and very carefully holds it out to one side, then the other. Starscream doesn't react, but his proximity alerts ping him anyway. When the Carcerian reaches toward Starscream's datapad, his finger telescoping out, Starscream flicks it away. 

"Elita would not let me tell you this," Obsidian continues, retracting his finger and steepling his hands in front of his face, "but unfortunately, you have proven that when you do not possess all the relevant information to fully assess a dangerous situation, you _meddle_."

"Obviously," Starscream says. The leader of Cybertron should probably refrain from snarking at people, but where's the fun in that? He adds a single line to the frame modeled on his datapad with a pointed jab.

"So long as Carcer's spark remains intact, the space bridge will continue to function. However, the longer it takes for us to re-establish our control over the ancillary processors, the more likely it is that Carcer will...re-establish his own connections."

Starscream shuts down his optics for a moment, vents a sigh, and then turns them back on. 

Obsidian watches him, his maskplate unreadable and his posture far too casual. Like they're two friends chatting it up, instead of the ruler of Cybertron and Elita-1's lackey in chief. 

Starscream has no friends.

(He's received 51 messages on his comm network from Wheeljack over the past three weeks. All of them unopened, stuffed in the junk folder to rust.

Eventually, Starscream figures, that traitor will _take the hint._ )

The scrape of his chair as Starscream pushes back from the desk and stands sets off his lingering headache. He grimaces for many, many reasons. "This is a _Windblade_ problem," he says, and sighs again.

Because it's _true_.

-

Metroplex lays sprawled on the cratered ground outside of Iacon. 

Still. Weeks after the fact. 

Lazy sack of bolts.

Between the undead Titans, and the fact that Metroplex was in rubbish shape to begin with, the new cityspeakers claim it would be unwise to order him to pull himself together. Apparently, Starscream is being 'unreasonable' and 'impatient' when he insists that Metroplex get his aft back over here and fill in the gaping hole in their infrastructure that he left by uprooting himself to get slagged in a fight for the fiftieth time this year. 

Different cityspeakers, same excuses. 

Cybertron struggles to recover ( _yet again_ ) and Windblade refuses to help Starscream in any meaningful way ( _yet **again**_ ) while Starscream wrangles the colonies and his own people back into line. He doesn't have blackmail to hold over Windblade anymore. It _grates_.

'Wrangle.' Urgh. What an unpleasantly human word. He hates when those slip in.

They find Windblade perched on top of Metroplex's head. With the Titan laying down it's easy to spot her on one of Metroplex's finials. She's exposed, one leg swinging over the open air, where literally any sniper on the planet - and probably more than a few in orbit - could hit her.

Starscream is appalled. Colonists tend to be careless, un-armored fools as a rule, but Windblade's been around Cybertron long enough to _know_ better. If he were Elita-1, he'd already have taken the shot.

"Oh look. A sitting duck," Starscream drawls, as they approach.

Obsidian cocks his head to the side. "A what?"

Perched beside Windblade, Bumblebee chuckles, unheard by anyone except Starscream.

"A word, cityspeaker?" Starscream says, instead of explaining the inanities of Earth organisms. If Prime would stop lording his pet planet over all of them, the world would be a better place.

"Starscream," Windblade replies, her voice even and distant. Her blue optics glance sidelong at them, like shards of ice. "How can I help you?"

On her far side, Bumblebee tilts his head back and scans the sky. Starscream follows his gaze with a sour scowl. Carcer's in geosynchronous orbit over Iacon - the council meeting where Elita announced that left Starscream literally steaming with fury - so the view leaves a lot to be desired. Luna-2 hangs low in the sky, shambling along at its own unchanging pace, as barren and dull as ever.

 _By knocking Elita down a peg, like you were_ supposed _to._ All Windblade has accomplished since waking up is to successfully get herself kicked off the Council. True, watching her sass the Mistress of Flame entertained Starscream immensely, but since then Windblade hasn't done anything to stay _relevant._ Flouting his authority seems to be a petty bonus in her continuing downward spiral. 

Starscream's never listening to brilliant ideas from his own hallucinations ever again. 

"Apparently, Elita anticipates trouble from her little problem," Starscream says, flicking his hand dismissively at Obsidian. "And you're the resident expert."

Windblade shakes her head before he's even finished. "I can't help with Vigilem. Even if they rebuilt his main processor from scratch, I think Elita has made it very clear that interfacing with him is more dangerous than its worth." 

Then she pauses. "But she's not the one asking for help," she finishes, slowly, cocking her head to the side.

Obsidian inclines his helm. "Perceptive," he says. Starscream thinks that's laying it on a little thick, but it's not his business who Obsidian decides to butter up in his spare time. "Elita would prefer to handle this in-house. Without the central processor, Carcer is limited in how much processing power it can bring to bear against us. But with the loss of the processor, our equivalent of cityspeakers must reprogram the restrictions binding Carcer almost from scratch. The redundancies buried in the ancillary processors are - not sufficient." 

Which means that Elita doesn't have the control she claims she does. Starscream would feel gleeful, but if the Carcerians can't get their slag under control, it'll explode all over hisplanet. Again. 

Either way, Starscream's work here is done. "I'll leave you two to discuss this. I'm sure you'll come to some kind of arrangement. Try not to blow up the other half of my city in the process," he says, spinning on a heel. 

Windblade's acidic voice reels him back in. "I don't know. Has Elita changed her stance on lying, lately?" she asks, coldly. "As far as I can tell, she's still pushing the story that _she_ won that fight. For someone who nearly shot Starscream on sight, she seems to have embraced lying with her whole spark."

Starscream turns and stares at Windblade. 

Obsidian says nothing.

Windblade continues to stare out at the horizon. The face paint can't hide the _fury_ strung taut through her wings. "But then, the whole thing started with a lie, didn't it." She angles her body away from them, giving Obsidian a nice view of her shoulder. "Come back when you call him Vigilem."

Underneath them, Metroplex shifts. Miles below their feet, deep in his internals.

Obsidian bows very low. Obsequiously low. "I hope that you are recovering well. If you reconsider, please do not hesitate to contact me."

As soon as Obsidian leaves hearing range, Starscream begins to slow clap. 

Bumblebee and Windblade both shoot him a lookof identical disdain. "And what do you want, Starscream? You wouldn't have bothered coming out here with him unless you wanted something for yourself," Windblade says, unimpressed. 

Her analysis is blunt, but not inaccurate. Starscream waves a hand idly. "Oh, just came to see how progress is coming along with Metroplex." A pause, then just a touch of acid to match her own. "But I suppose asking _you_ about that would be pointless. Shirking your duties, cityspeaker?" 

Something unreadable ripples across Windblade's face. "The Mistress of Flame sent three of the best minds on Caminus to speak with Metroplex. There is nothing I can do that the most prestigious cityspeakers alive cannot," she says, her voice stilted, with those overly-formal subglyphs that Camiens insist on using when they're -

Well. Well, well, well. Starscream _can_ read her expression, after all. "Interesting. Someone's bitter," he murmurs. 

Windblade's veneer of indifference cracks, and she glares at him.

Starscream is, quite frankly, scandalized. This is _hilarious._ "You _are!_ And I was joking!" 

The wind picks up a little. It whistles over Metroplex's rootmode. They both angle their wings automatically; Windblade ducks her head, the stripped-down ornaments of her helm tinkling quietly. "They offered to let me stay, as the cityspeaker with the most experience with Metroplex. I recused myself," she says, pressing a hand to her chest.

The smirk that creeps across his face is the most genuine amusement he's felt in almost a month. "And yet...still bitter."

\---

_Perhaps the distance has drawn out too far between us. The stars growing distant in their orbits._

_We cannot hear them, anymore. The Core has fallen silent._

\- Vivere of the Core, <<Final Transmission>>

\---

Rattrap turns up to harass Starscream every morning, like clockwork.

Starscream prefers to keep Rattrap where he can keep an eye on him. Like calls to like, after all, and Rattrap's ambition is more easily checked when Starscream knows what he's doing.

And then Swindle happened, and Starscream realized just how thoroughly Rattrap has threaded himself into the everyday operations of Cybertron's government as his personal assistant. He's ruthlessly cut Rattrap out of his immediate affairs, but a bitter taste lingers in his mouth whenever he remembers just how many servos the spawn of a glitch has sunk into Starscream's bureaucracy. So many mecha report first and foremost to Rattrap.

Redirecting all the minutiae of rebuilding the planet to his own desk swamps Starscream in a matter of hours. But he's been operating in constant, recharge-deprived exhaustion for months now. A little longer won't kill him.

The worst part is, Rattrap isn't fazed by any of this. He sails on, unconcerned, secure in his position and perfectly poised to stab Starscream in the back. Starscream hates him a little for it.

"Hey, boss," Rattrap starts to say. He tries to walk backwards in front of Starscream, and scrambles out of the way when Starscream lengthens his stride to plough right through him. "I -"

Starscream glares over the mech's head. "Not now."

"Hey, it's cool, I get it. But c'mon, let bygones be bygones. I got some news you're gonna wanna hear, boss."

Starscream stops dead and wheels around to scan the hall. Not empty, but close enough for government work. "Let me guess. You and Wheeljack have had the _brilliant_ idea to abscond with Carcer's body and whisk it away to try to revive it on the moon, while everyone here tattoos 'CARCER LIVES!' on their aft!" he snaps. He barely hesitates over Wheeljack's designation - progress. "At least have the decency to frame Elita for it instead, this time!" 

Rattrap cringes. But he waves it off within moments, electric with excitement. "I told you, boss, I'm real sorry about all that. But this is for real! Ar-fragging-cee is back on world!"

Of course. Exactly what Starscream wanted to hear. He wants to doubt Rattrap on principle - but who is he kidding? "Oh. Joy. As though Optimus doesn't barge in and throw his religious figurehead weight around enough as it is." He pinches the bridge of his nose to stem the throb of his perpetual headache. "What do they want _now_?"

"That's the thing! No one knows! Arcee's one of the ones you don't hear about unless she wants you to. Real tight with Prowl, back in the day."

As though Starscream isn't aware. Simpler times.

Then Rattrap glances around and leans in conspiratorially close. Starscream leans back, wrinkling his nose. "So, they're trying to keep it on the downlow, but word is? She and the big OP had a 'talk,'" Rattrap whispers. "Then all of a sudden Arcee blasts through the space bridge without even trying to hide it and goes to ground on _this_ side."

"And let me guess. None of _my_ people informed me of this first because _you_ bribed them not to." Starscream can't even bring himself to be mad about it, at this point; the government would cease functioning if he ripped out all of Rattrap's network. Yet another reason why he can't recharge at night in peace.

Rattrap fakes a pout; his optics remain calculating, fixed on Starscream's face. Memorizing the chinks in his armor. "Aw boss, don't be like that."

Starscream shutters off any expression on his face. He's left himself too vulnerable to Rattrap in the past; now that they're in a lull between trash fires, he needs to control himself. "Fine. Find out what she's doing. You, personally. Then we can talk," he says, as silky and razor-sharp as music wire.

Rattrap splutters.

Which is the correct reaction to anything involving Arcee, really. 

Bumblebee has the gall to look troubled at the door to the council chambers. "Please, for the love of Primus, do _not_ give Rattrap a chance to play both sides of the table with _Arcee_ ," he says, his voice pained.

"Do I look like an idiot?" Starscream grumbles as he sweeps toward his seat.

-

One of his Badgeless falls in step just a pace behind Starscream after the avalanche of morning meetings subsides.

He's preoccupied with a Camien envoy - one of their simpering ambassadors, painted to match the Mistress of Flame, who make him yearn for the days when Windblade was the primary rusty nail in his side. At least Windblade was _interesting_.

 _Is_ interesting, for all her stubbornness.

"And how is Metroplex, on this fine morning?" he asks the envoy, not expecting a straight answer, as the dark frame of the Badgeless registers on his rear proximity sensors.

As usual, they give him nothing but excuses. "Cityspeakers Honora, Quickswitch, and Crossflare are communing with the Titan right now, Lord Starscream. They should be able to interpret Metroplex's current thoughts by tomorrow evening."

Starscream lets his mouth curl with disdain as he snorts. "You know, when Windblade did this, it involved a great deal less mumbo jumbo." She always fed him excuses, too, but at least she did it _promptly_. 

The Camien envoy's smooth politician's mask never wavers for a second, even as they bow in contrition. "Apologies, Lord Starscream. The cityspeakers needed to familiarize themselves with Metroplex's systems. They should soon provide more information than an inexperienced cityspeaker like Windblade could alone. A Titan's mind contains exponentially more processing power than our own - when a Titan cannot speak directly, interpreting all of the raw data must be done manually."

Perversely, the envoy's calm explanation drags along the sharp edges of Starscream's raw temper like sandpaper. "None of this is _news_ to me. Tell your cityspeakers that I expect something actionable by tonight, or they can explain their inadequacies to the Council," he says, his voice scathing. "The people of Cybertron would like their homes back some time this century. At least Windblade knew when to plug in and get it over with."

Another simpering bow. Starscream resists the inane urge to wring their neck. When they speak again, they seem to be choosing their words with care. "Of course, Lord Starscream. However, I must emphasize that cityspeaker Windblade's actions were...inadvisable and dangerous, both for herself and Metroplex. Interfacing with a Titan's mind is reckless and should only be a last resort."

Oh, the irony.

"Quite frankly? I don't care," Starscream says, and then stalks away.

The Badgeless keeps perfect pace with him, silent, as he heads back to his office. Most of them know to let Starscream finish fuming before interrupting him, by now.

"Which one are you again?" Truth be told, Starscream doesn't have many Badgeless left at his disposal - his secret police have an annoying habit of dying or failing spectacularly (sometimes both at the same time), and between their ineffectiveness and Ironhide's new, more popular force patrolling the streets and openly communicating with the public, Starscream's about ready to give up on it. People aren't exactly lining up for the job, either. Ironhide, annoyingly enough, has more recruits every day. 

"Radiocon," the anonymized vocalizer says. The mech's tone sounds almost amused, under the veneer of indifference.

Starscream freezes midstep, processing the kind of misfortune it would take get stuck with such a travesty of a name. "...I am so sorry. What's gone wrong, now?"

The Badgeless clears their vocalizer with a burst of static that sounds suspiciously like a dark chuckle. "A report from Chromia. She followed the energy signature of Liege Maximo's teleport beam, but it appears that an energy spike near the singularity where Crystal City used to be disrupted the signal. She's recalibrating her equipment and carrying on from there."

"Tch. Typical," Starscream mutters. He stops in front of his office door to go through all the new security systems, then sighs and opens his mouth to rattle off an order to the Badgeless.

Arcee smirks at him. She's back in black, the brilliant pink of her mouth, detailing, and her new visor the only color on her frame.

Starscream's mouth snaps shut.

"Please tell me you're not trading Prowl in for a better model," he says, at last, feeling vaguely hysterical. He doesn't _want_ to be the new Prowl. _No one wants that._

Arcee smiles the smile of the mech who _invented_ threat level 9. It's eerily reminiscent of Overlord's. "Prowl's on sabbatical," she says, while Starscream feels the first wave of despair wrack his body. "And I have some free time in my schedule."

Starscream shakes his head, and whispers, "No."

Arcee grins. It transcends Overlord. Starscream can feel his spark weeping under the psychological assault.

She taps her fingers to her helm in a mocking salute and falls back into the shadows. "Chromia and I will keep you posted."

Starscream walks into his office, and lets the door shut behind him before he lets the existential crisis take him.

Bumblebee pats his cane on Starscream's shoulder from a safe distance. "There there, there there," he says, his voice flat and completely unsympathetic.

-

Once he's finished mourning what little hope he had left of surviving past the century, Starscream sits down to sign off on the mountain of digital paperwork accumulating in Rattrap's absence.

In theory. In practice, he fiddles with the frame modelling program. He has made zero progress on it since yesterday, but it gives him an outlet for the agonizing knot of tension twisting up the cables between his wings. "This is ridiculous," he mutters, languishing in his office with one arm thrown over his optics. 

"I would say, ' _you're_ ridiculous,' but that would be juvenile," Bumblebee replies. He rolls his cane against the edge of Starscream's desk with a thoughtful expression. "True. But juvenile."

Starscream heaves a tremendous sigh.

Until he joined the Decepticons, it was too dangerous to appeal for a full frame change, however minor - that sort of whining shot you right to the top of most exalted of the Functionist Council's watchlists. During the war, though, he could excuse it as an indulgence whenever he sustained enough damage on the battlefield or at Megatron's hands. Over millions of years, he's maintained a complex network of favors, blackmail, and bribery with the few relatively sane Decepticon medics who could be trusted to do their jobs _without_ modifying his insides on a whim. 

Nothing is more annoying than to wake up from emergency surgery to discover that Shockwave got the bright idea to turn your body into dark matter-spewing Super Soaker. The absolute madmech.

Yet none of Starscream's many bodies, over the years, have been right. Powerful, agile, beautiful - of course. A few that were...mistakes, in retrospect. None of them fit well enough to bother keeping longer than a few thousand years.

This current obsession, though. 

This is Windblade's fault. Windblade had to go and flit around in his brain and drag something out of Starscream that feels -

He deletes every in-progress frame design saved in his modelling program, and stares at the empty screen until he's late for another meeting with the Devisiun contingent. He takes the datapad along with him, draws a single line as they talk to him about some nonsense, and promptly erases it with a sullen frown. 

It's going to be wrong. Whatever he comes up with, it'll be just as fundamentally wrong as every other frame he's ever worn. Starscream tries to call up the memory of that day - but the dream-like scraps of memory drip between his fingers like spilled energon. All he really retains are the useless bits: the emotions, the sensation of finally _fitting_ in his own body. The euphoria of his whole frame attuned to his spark, like a perfect note. A blurry smear of color.

None of the details. The measurements, the metal composition, the engine make and model - nothing _useful_.

Starscream can think of approximately four hundred and thirty-three excellent reasons why he _never_ wants to speak to Windblade about what happened. Ever. 

At least ninety of them aren't even the least bit petty. 

Calling up his personal comm network reveals another twelve unread messages from Wheeljack. Starscream grimaces and opens a new comm line, skimming past the unwelcome messages.

SS: Windblade.  
SS: This is the supreme leader of Cybertron speaking.  
SS: There is another matter I would consult you on.  
WB: Solus preserve me.  
WB: Do I want to know how you even have this line?  
SS: Never mind that now.  
WB: Is this going to involve blackmail, threats, intimidation, lying, or all of the above?  
SS: I mean, I would hate to limit my options _this_ early in the day.  
WB: If I close this comm right now, will there be some kind of dire crisis threatening the city in the next forty-eight hours?  
SS: What a ridiculous question. Have you seen this planet's track record, lately? Were you not here for the last three world-ending disasters?  
WB: What do you _want,_ Starscream.  
SS: I need your -  
SS: Eurgh.  
SS: I require your -  
WB: Good grief.  
WB: You need my help?  
SS: Don't be ridiculous.  
SS: A consultation on a private matter.  
WB: You've clarified absolutely nothing. That's the exact same thing you just said.  
SS: Come to my office to-  
WB: No.  
SS: Yes.  
WB: No.  
SS: Yes.  
WB: What are you, a protoform?  
SS: Never.  
WB: I speak for myself. I'm not going to be your mouthpiece or your pawn. And I have concerns of my own to deal with; unless there's an immediate threat to Cybertron or Metroplex, I'm not cleaning up after your mess anymore.  
SS: Yes, you've made that pathetic stance perfectly clear by throwing away any and all power you used to have.  
SS: Fine. I don't care about your negligible political capital anymore. Satisfied?  
WB: Then what do you _want_?  
SS: I want your opinion on my next frame.  


Windblade's comm shuts off with a click.

He thinks that went rather well.

He sends her the meeting time, anyway.

"Don't sulk if she doesn't show up," Bumblebee says, chiding. "Seriously. Would it actually kill you to say 'please'?"

"Yes, it would," Starscream hisses back, and then lets his head thump against his desk.

Vanquish and Fireshot exchange significant looks across the table.

-

Windblade never responds to the meeting invite. If all else fails, Starscream does know where she lives.

But Windblade somehow exceeds his expectations for how poorly this evening is going to go by bringing _Wheeljack_ along.

The sight of him on the security camera is the first and only warning Starscream gets. Like an impatient idiot, he ordered the door to open from across the room, so they could hurry up and get this over with. When he processes exactly who's standing beside Windblade, he flings himself at the door with a screech. He punches the sharp claws of his hands right through the metal door and does his best to slam it shut. The automated system shrills at him in protest. 

A green-and-red striped leg kicks through the opening before Starscream can close the gap. "Starscream -" Wheeljack's leg says, exasperated.

Starscream could _care less_. "GET! OUT!" he shrieks, clinging to the edge of the door for dear life. The door's servos whir frantically as Starscream prevents it from opening.

Truly, Windblade is a diabolical fiend straight from the Pit itself. He should never have underestimated her powers.

"We have a problem," Wheeljack's leg insists. Which is how 90% of their problems usually start -

"Not interested!"

"So, supreme leader. Why have you been ignoring urgent messages about a potential threat to Cybertron?" Windblade asks, her drawl muffled through the door. 

Starscream is going to murder _both of them_. For now, he switches tactics. "He comes in here over my dead body!" Metal squeals under his fingers as he crumples the edge of the door. 

Wheeljack's leg remains stoically unfazed. Blast that leg. "We're having moon trouble again. Those old, explosive energy transmissions. Looks like the effect's localized just outside the city limits, under the surface of the planet, but the _real_ problem is -"

His hands spasm and wrench the door open without Starscream's conscious permission. The raw, stinging fury coiled tight in his chest propels him out the door in a single tight, trembling step. "Over _Swindle's dead body,_ then," he says, his face inches from Wheeljack's.

Wheeljack flinches, hard. Because he's balanced precariously on one leg, he nearly topples over; his hand shoots past Starscream to catch on the side of the door. Starscream, with what he considers a heroic effort, doesn't shoot the offending hand on sight. 

"Starscream," he repeats. "Please." 

Starscream can't read anything in Wheeljack's optics, or through his maskplate. 

Thankfully, he knows better than to trust a word out of Wheeljack's lying vocalizer, nowadays.

"Until the day Luna-2 _finally_ transforms into an enormous super-Titan and threatens to rain death down on us from on high," he says, his voice a cruel whisper, " _I. Don't. Care._ "

 _I don't care about_ you.

Wheeljack's frame goes slack, like a drone without instructions. Dim and unfocused, his optics drop to the floor. 

While Starscream savors the bitter sting of victory, Windblade rolls her optics and shoulders into the room past Starscream. "Even better. The transmissions are summoning a life-devouring monster from the depths of space," she says. She drags Starscream's chair out of the way and plants herself on top of the desk, her arms folded over her torso as she glares at him. 

Starscream tears his eyes away from Wheeljack long enough to stare at her. Windblade stares back, one orbital ridge arched as though daring him to comment. 

He whips back around to glare at Wheeljack. Wheeljack raises his head, but doesn't meet his gaze; his eyes are low and unfocused, flickering across Starscream's face to avoid eye contact. 

Starscream throws up his hands and stalks away from the broken, shuddering remains of the door. Bumblebee sidesteps out of his path, and Starscream slings himself into his chair with reckless abandon. "Fine," he says, glowering at all three annoyances in the room. "Talk."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hover over Greek for translation.

\---

_Can you hear me?_

\- Prima, <<source unknown; recipient unknown>>

\---

Before Bumblebee - before Metalhawk - before Megatron -

Well. It was a while ago. And it clearly meant nothing to Wheeljack, at the time. 

Starscream swirls his hand grandly and summons his finest sarcasm for the occasion. "Dear Wheeljack. I've changed my mind. Explain the moon problems to dear Windblade and myself," he says, lip curled, as he spins his chair around in a circle.

It never meant anything to him, either. Starscream doesn't have time for pathetic distractions like friendship. 

Wheeljack cycles a quiet, shuddering vent, and Starscream grits his teeth. 

"Woulda been right after the Lost Light took off, yeah? Back when Bumblebee and Metalhawk were still alive and kicking. Spontaneous explosions started going off; lot of people got hurt or killed. Turns out Cybertron transmits periodic energy signals to its moons, like some kind of circuit - the problem being that we're currently short a moon, so part of that energy had nowhere to go."

Windblade drums her fingers on Starscream's desk. She's folded her legs under her, optics narrow and assessing as she glances sharply at Starscream. "Why have I never heard of this before?"

"It got handled. I launched a rocket as a temporary fix to complete the circuit, then put together a quick satellite." Wheeljack shrugs, but fails utterly at making the movement seem casual. "But then I took a cannon to the back of the head and missed a whole crisis while my processor grew back, so it was still the temp satellite up there, all this time."

" _Was_ ," Starscream repeats. He knows exactly where this is leading; he hasn't forgotten Windblade's little 'life-devouring monster' tidbit. 

The worst part is, he's not even surprised. Starscream is...used to this. Facing some fresh catastrophe every other month has left him grimly resigned to all the nonsense.

That doesn't mean he has to like it. 

Wheeljack projects his datapad's readings and analysis against the wall. The calculations run even as Wheeljack speaks; Starscream can't follow them, though. His old ambition to become a scientist withered under the Functionists - working with Shockwave on a daily basis for several million years finished it off. "One of the Titans last month smashed up the satellite. My instruments were still running all this time, but I wasn't keeping an eye on 'em. Back when I was still out of commission, the energy pulses shifted frequency and increased in power. When the transmissions couldn't reach Luna-1, it just kept transmitting further into deep space...and apparently, something _else_ answered."

Wheeljack pulls up a red sound packet and flicks the waveform open. Windblade pre-emptively snaps her fingers, in a gesture Starscream recognizes as a signal to dampen her audial sensors. She's heard this already.

What emerges from the speakers is the _opposite_ of words. 

Only half of it comes through Starscream's audial sensors - a sound like a thousand shrieking blenders shredding living metal in a mutually destructive paroxysm. Like Tesarus multiplied a hundred times over. Starscream's body shakes like he, personally, is the one being shredded. The rest of the sound slides into Starscream's mind like a mnemosurgical needle, thin and piercing, and _[cold]_ blooms in his processor in broken, fragmented syllables. It's every memory of Megatron's cannon shoved through his chest; of his spark not-quite-extinguishing; it's everything Tarn wishes he could be; it's - it's - it's - i-t's - i -

[DeathUnicron. ComesWelcomedETA: T-minus 182 days.]

[I. Come.]

Starscream purges his tanks.

-

"Yeah, it does that," Windblade tells him, unsympathetically. 

Muting one's audials only negates some of the effect, _supposedly._ Neither Wheeljack nor Windblade look as miserable as Starscream feels after the last, screaming echoes fade from his brain module.Starscream glares and shoots both of them a rude Earth hand glyph; Wheeljack coughs.

In the corner, Bumblebee hunches over a puddle of hallucinatory vomit. Delightful. Exactly what Starscream always wanted. At least they're suffering together.

"When was that sent?" Starscream demands, rasping and hoarse. He barely had enough energon in his tanks _to_ vomit - his eating patterns are as erratic as his recharge schedule, lately.

"Approximately 169 days ago," Wheeljack replies, grimly. He's closer than Starscream likes; when Starscream heaves himself back into his chair, Wheeljack's hand grazes the back of his shoulder to help steady him. Close enough that Starscream could make out the fine-level cracks and shadows lining Wheeljack's exhausted optics. Wheeljack looks as tired as Starscream feels. "The transmission only reached us last week. I've been trying to tell you since then."

Ah. Fantastic. 

Thirteen days until Death comes. 

-

Starscream no longer frags around, pretending to keep it together while concealing their impending doom from the populace. Because honestly, _what is the point_. 

He just comms the space gates and orders them to start prepping for yet another mass evacuation. 

They don't ask questions. That's how bad it's gotten. A quick, crisp [Yessir,] pings him back, and that's that. Within hours, Cybertron will be mobilized. Where they'll send everyone remains…up for debate.

He massages his temples, sprawled sideways in his chair as he recovers, and cycles a long slow vent at the realization that this has finally broken him. He can't even pretend to care about his popularity on Cybertron anymore. It's pointless. There is only Starscream, and the universe about to dump a metric fragton of organic waste on top of him for the fifth time in as many weeks.

Some days, he thinks he's made of nothing but regrets. He half-wishes he could reset the clock and let Metalhawk deal with all this smelting garbage. 

Well. Not really. But Starscream can feel a fresh wave of stress lines spreading through his struts even as they speak.

"I'm trying to get optics on it," Wheeljack says, hip armor hitched on the side of the desk as he flies through something on his datapad. "Most of our satellite coverage got slagged when the Titans came through atmo. I'll put something together and get us a better ETA."

"We need to know more about this thing. Unicron," Windblade says, massaging her chest with the heel of her palm. She refuses to get down from his desk. It seems to make her feel tall. "I can only think of one figure in old Camien history-song that might fit, but most of our legends focus on Solus and the other Primes."

Starscream slaps his datapad down in front of her and opens his comm suite in his HUD. As much as it rankles him to ever hand over one of his devices to someone he knows to be hostile, there's nothing incriminating on that datapad. Probably. "Forget about that. I know a mech," he says, rolling his optics. "Focus on this."

Windblade turns on the screen with the expression of someone inspecting a particularly vile, liquid-exuding organic animal. "And...what, exactly, am I looking at here?" she asks, squinting.

Starscream starts to pace. His legs wobble under him; he forces them to straighten. He paces right in front of the window, because if there _is_ some eager, peppy young assassin within targeting distance of Iacon, he at least wants to go out in style. "Raw potential."

Windblade turns the datapad sideways. "You mean it's unfinished."

" _Potential,_ " Starscream repeats, emphatically. "Would you happen to recall what color I was?" 

Windblade lets the datapad drop into her lap and stares up at the ceiling with the pained expression of someone who is deeply questioning her life choices. Oddly, her optics are rimmed with just as much dark discoloration as Wheeljack and Starscream's. The angular paint rimming her eyes can't conceal it. Starscream can't imagine what on Cybertron Windblade is so busy with that she's missed sleep. 

"Don't tell me you've forgotten already."

Windblade lets her head roll to the side and looks him dead in the eye as she tosses the datapad back. "You're using the wrong scale. Think bigger. Just under shuttle size. And also?" Her exasperation raises her volume tenfold; she leans forward and slams her hands down on the desk. " _We have more important things to worry about!_ " 

Starscream pretends to inspect the tips of his fingers. "Well, you know what the humans say: new year, new me."

Windblade stares at him in complete incomprehension. Slowly but surely, her hands rise and silently strangle the air in front of her.

 _Please_.

"I'm not even gonna ask," Wheeljack mutters.

Starscream tosses the datapad back, more forcefully than needed; the casing _cracks_ as it smacks against Windblade's hand. "Just do this while I ping my contact. I assure you, they will know more about ancient Cybertronian myth and song than literally anyone ever wanted to hear," he says, sneering, and then pulls up a truly ancient iteration of the old Decepticon network. It degraded with the creep of time, but he's used it in the past to locate old Decepticon-turned-Neutral mechs who would rather fix up his frame than have him leak their location to the DJD.

Windblade sticks out her glossa, then grimaces down at the datapad. 

SS: I know you still answer here.   
SS: Nostalgic?  
RP: -- away --  
SS: Whatever. I need whatever you have on Unicron.  
SS: If you didn't dump everything in your cortex so you'd have more room for Megatron's _poetry_.  
RP: I considered it.  
SS: Of course you did.  
RP: But I have a duty to more than just Megatron's body of works.   
RP: What do you want? Primary sources? Ballads? Prose works from later in the era of Primes steadily decline in credibility, especially once you hit the Trion period. Slagger.  
SS: You're not even going to ask why?  
RP: I don't think I want to know.   
SS: Whatever. I don't care about ballads, I care about facts.   
RP: Old Cybertronian recorded most historical events in the high mode. It all sounds like song, to us. Ballads are what you get.  
RP: With a fine Tetrahex-variant accent, I might add. Very old dialect. I obtained some recordings from a most interesting source, if that meets your discerning taste.  
SS: Now I remember why no one liked you.  
RP: I couldn't care less.   
SS: Just send me everything you have.   


The only advantage to contacting Requiem - they don't charge Starscream a single credit. Unlike some archivist-class mechs, Requiem prefers proselytizing. It almost makes dealing with the Tetrahex-issued crowbar up their aft worth it. 

The encrypted data file pings Starscream's inbox a moment later, but downloading the whole packet and decrypting it will take time. Starscream doesn't let on in his expression that the deed is done. Wheeljack is engrossed in his own work, anyway. Let Windblade stew a little while longer before he kicks them out.

"You've never had a frame that felt right," she mutters.

Or perhaps he should kick them out now, and get it over with. "Now you're just trying to change the subject."

"You haven't changed yourself so often to hide anything. You've done it to try to _find_ something." Windblade's grimace smoothed into meditative contemplation when Starscream wasn't looking. Her free hand traces over the modelling canvas with only micro-hesitations; a frame takes shape on the screen with startling speed. She can't possibly be calculating the necessary dimensions and fuselage stress analysis on the fly like this. "Vigilem didn't understand. _I_ didn't understand."

"I'd ask what on Cybertron you were going on about, but I don't care," Starscream says, his voice flat. Across the desk, Wheeljack shifts: his optics flick up from his work, then skitter away when Starscream catches him at it. 

He doesn't want Wheeljack poking around, being _curious_. As if he cares. Wheeljack wasn't involved in the mess with Vigilem for a reason. "Don't you people have other places to be? _I_ have an evacuation to plan," Starscream adds, irritably. He's starting to regret not announcing it as an evacuation drill, if only to save on paperwork. People would have actually believed him. Even the ones who should know better by now. 

But what's one more regret in the scrap heap?

"You know, you avoid thinking about anything makes you uncomfortable," Bumblebee points out; Starscream ignores him. The hallucination starts to count on his fingers. "Things that make Starscream uncomfortable include: honesty, trust, open communication, _feelings_ -"

"There. Done." Windblade hands him the datapad and then sits back, resting her hands on her knees expectantly.

What.

Starscream resets his optics. 

When he stands there, blinking at her in disbelief, Windblade vents in exasperation and taps the screen pointedly. The _donkdonkdonk_ makes Starscream yank the datapad back. 

"That's how you could be forged. How I interpreted it, anyway," she says, her painted mouth twisted up in a self-deprecating moue. "You're asking me to remember the details of a three-weeks old mind merge. Most of these memories have a source code from _your_ processor."

Starscream hesitates - glances down -

And recognizes himself.

-

_(Oh. There you are.)_

-

Starscream absorbs the image, arrested; he's too busy trying to engrave the sight in his memory to reply. 

He can't forget again.

"Perhaps it's not what you would have been, at the beginning," Windblade murmurs. She sounds - strange. "You've grown since then. But despite everything, it's still you."

He finds his voice. "These are deep space specs." A tap, and he scans another layer she's sketched out, the fuel cells arranged around the spark casing. Another layer - the brilliant, vibrant paint of armor nanites, designed to resist cosmic radiation. "Good grief. This would involve a full overhaul. Including internal lines. It would basically replace my entire protoform."

"You asked for a consult. You got one," Windblade says, dry as a rust stick. 

His vocalizer feels heavy. Like something's lodged inside the wires. "Oh, shut up."

As she hops down from the desk, Starscream scans through the frame model a third time. The thrusters - he's used that design before, in a frame that lasted approximately thirty thousand years. It'll be hard to find a similar piece these days; the only supplier he'd trust is...ugh. Swindle.

Bumblebee shakes his helm as Windblade brushes past him. "You think that frame will solve everything?" he asks. 

Without warning, he shoves an arm between Starscream and the screen. He's not real, but it distorts the view. Starscream's head snaps up, a snarl churning in his throat. Bumblebee points an accusing finger at the door, his jaw set. "Starscream. Just thank her. Salvage whatever hope there might be for you two cooperating in the future. _Please._ "

 _Anything,_ to get his resident Autobot off his back. The worst part of hallucinating all the time is that he can't physically remove Bumblebee from the room with sufficient force. He just lives like this - glitched badly enough that he's never really alone. "Yes, yes, thank you," Starscream says, impatiently, and flips his hand at Bumblebee's semi-opaque arm until he retracts it. 

"...You're welcome," Windblade says. 

She says it so quietly that Starscream jerks. He thought she left before he caved under Bumblebee's pressure. The Camien hovers in the doorway, her expression thoughtful but distant, and edged with determination. 

Inexplicable determination. Windblade. 

_All_ of Starscream's internal alarms start shrieking at the same time. A determined Windblade is a _menace_. Starscream shakes his head with mounting horror as Windblade starts to walk away. "Oh no. No. Wait. Where do you think you're going?!" he demands. He bangs his wing on the side of the chair as he rushes out after her. 

Wheeljack looks up, belatedly, and calls after him. Starscream ignores him.

"To ask Metroplex about Unicron," she says, her smugness echoing down the hallway as she makes a beeline for the twentieth-floor balcony. "You're not the only one who knows a mech."

...Damn her. _He's_ supposed to have the monopoly on smugness.

Cursing, Starscream cancels the rest of his meetings for the night. 

\---

_Where did you come from? Where did you go?_

\- <<[ancient Earth ballad](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mOYZaiDZ7BM)>>

\---

WB: Cold construction. Whose idea was that?  


The flight from Starscream's office to Metroplex takes several minutes. Starscream could go faster, but Camiens never built themselves for _real_ speed. Never had a several million-year long war to inspire them to improve their armor, their engines. Windblade coasts along at her top speed, and Starscream resists the urge to leave her in the dust. She pings him on comms the instant his transformation seams snap into motion.

SS: What, you want a history lesson? All the sordid details?   
SS: If we wanted to cover Nova Prime alone, we'd be here all day. I have more pressing matters to attend to.  
WB: I think this is important. I have to understand.   
SS: The real question is, how on Cybertron have you not learned better than to trust me by now? Sometimes I truly question your judgment.  
WB: Believe me, I'm rethinking it.  
SS: Better than you asking an Autobot, I suppose. Consider this a favor. You owe me.  
WB: I changed my -  


Starscream deliberately buzzes her. Windblade veers out of the way, her blades spinning furiously. 

SS: Nova and his cronies wanted more people to conquer the galaxy. Pax Cybertronia for all.   
SS: When Cybertron stopped producing enough hot spots to meet his quota, he started sparking off his own. They kept everyone frozen in batches until they had premade frames to stick them in.   
SS: Skips right past that pesky protoform stage you potato people all have to go through before you're fully functional.  
WB: What - potato?  
SS: Have I mentioned lately that I hate Earth?  
WB: Riiight. And they never tried to consult the sparks themselves? Surely they could have produced sentio metallico, even if sparks weren't flaring as often -  


He'd ask how she's still this naive - but then, Starscream supposes there's no reason for anyone on Caminus to know these things. None of the colonists have a clue. 

SS: At all.  
SS: Sometimes I forget you people know _nothing._ Cybertron hasn't produced a single natural, viable hot spot in over six million years. Not since Alyon.  
SS: Cybertron died long before our little tiff. The war just sealed the deal.  


That is not, strictly speaking, true. Starscream smudges the facts without batting an eye. The sparks stolen away by Trypticon came from Alyon - for all they know, those sparks are still the same, old hot spot, somehow never harvested in the chaos of the war.

Impossible, given how thoroughly both Decepticons and Autobots stripped the planet. They scraped it clean of every ounce of energon and all the sparks needed to fuel an unending war. Alyon is an anomaly that Starscream has been too swamped to investigate. 

In the grand scheme of things, it means nothing. Cybertron is grey for the same reason as dead mechs.

WB: But that's -  


Starscream shuts down the comm line and transforms in midair. He lands in a crouch on Metroplex and walks away before Windblade glides in for her landing. Camiens take too long to transform - all whirls and unnecessary, decorative movement.

"That's life," he tells her.

"That's extinction," she says.

Can't argue with that.

-

A few of the cityspeakers' attendants try to stop them from accessing Metroplex's processor chamber. Their faces are pale, without the red markings. The cityspeakers are resting - Metroplex is in a defragmentation cycle - Starscream mustn't enter a sacred space -

Windblade, her expression grim, strides right through their ragged ranks with her hands clenched into fists. Something has her riled - her optics burn far brighter than usual, and she walks like a mech killing their way across a battlefield. Starscream comes this close to reluctantly _approving,_ but he controls himself.

Instead he smiles a thin, vicious grin for the attendants. "Oh, I would _love_ to see you try to stop me," he says, his voice dripping with contempt. _Make my day_.

None of them have half the backbone Windblade does. They scatter and flinch away from him, and Starscream follows Windblade unaccosted. 

Amateurs. 

Metroplex's main processor rests in the center of the chamber, anchored to the rest of his frame by a single, heavily-patched connecting stem. The dim, unfocused glyphs crowding the air around the processor burst into garish, dancing light the moment Windblade steps inside. Starscream steps to the side just beside the entrance and lurks, his sensors trained on the passage behind them. If anyone attempts to barge in and interrupt ( _like Elita_ ) he'll know. 

If Windblade can't grow her own paranoia, Starscream's will have to do.

Windblade kneels in front of Metroplex's mind and tilts her head back as the lights swirl out to greet her. Or at least, Starscream can only assume that's the case. None of the spies he's designated to try to interpret the Titan's brain and eliminate Windblade as a middlemech have succeeded. Metroplex thinks in Old Cybertronian, layered over and over again in impossibly dense loops of metaphor; the glyphs and subglyphs used are so ancient that Starscream's optics cross just looking at them. Most of them look like meaningless scribbles, essentially. 

One of these days, Starscream will find out whose bright idea it was to damage Metroplex so badly over the course of the war that he can't speak anymore. So many of Starscream's Windblade-shaped problems would be solved if Metroplex could fragging _talk._

It was probably Megatron's idea. It's always Megatron. His life would be so much simpler if Megatron would stop retroactively ruining it. 

"Unicron is coming," Windblade says. She reaches out to trace one of Metroplex's projected thoughts with a hand. "We need to know what it is. Do you know?"

The room turns the color of human blood as all of Metroplex's thoughts flare red.

Ah. Good. Promising. Absolutely no way that's a bad sign.

"He says...he says that Unicron is death."

"Yes, yes, we've heard," Starscream says, forcing himself to sound as bored as possible. 

"No," Windblade says, her wings canted low against her back. "The oldest word for [death] is [Unicron]."

Starscream can feel his headache coming back with a vengeance. "Good grief. That's almost as bad as Killmaster."

Windblade turns and blinks at him, nonplussed. "...Who?"

"Oh, one of the Warriors Elite. Missing for a few thousand years now. Probably irrelevant. Go on."

"That's not _really_ someone's designation," Windblade says, a little wild-eyed.

"Oh, of course not." 

Warily, Windblade turns back to Metroplex. 

Starscream restrains himself for approximately five seconds. "His original name was Murderking."

Windblade shoots him a rude Camien hand gesture, and focuses on Metroplex's rapidly darkening thoughts. The glyphs burst out of Metroplex's processor in a chaotic flurry, new thoughts overlapping and merging with the old almost as fast as Starscream's optics can track. "A - a [hunger]. They called it the Planet-Eater," she says. Occasionally she reaches out to tap on a glyph and draw it closer, her optics narrowed against the laser show. "Before...before Cybertron truly lived, there was an opposite. [σιδεράς]. A smelter of stars. It came, and all who fell into its orbit died."

"Died of _what_?" Starscream snaps. He starts to prowl in tight circles before the entrance, pacing. 

"Of death." Windblade tips her head to the side, the light of her optics lost in the glow of the glyphs clustered around her helm, insisting on her attention. More and more thoughts light up Metroplex's core processor, spilling out around the room, until Starscream realizes he's walking up to his knees in light. He hasn't seen a Titan mind this active since Windblade plugged in for the first time to spite him. "Proximity was enough. Death called, and they came." 

"Then how did they defeat it last time?" Starscream demands. When she doesn't answer, he whips around. "Windblade?"

She turns her head, tracking the path of a glyph that won't settle. It phases through the storm of words on its own course, energon-pink in the dark red haze. 

"...Curious," she says, her optics bleeding light. They glint indigo, from the wrong angle. "I don't think they did. Foolish of them."

Then Windblade shoves up off her knees, and bolts. 

It catches Starscream by surprise. The rush of wind as Windblade charges past him leaves him blinking, as though he missed a step on the stairs.

A quake rolls under his feet. Metroplex's wild, racing thoughts contract, veiling his processor in a film of red. 

Starscream knows the feeling. Now he needs to go hunt Windblade down and haul her back in here. Whatever it is that crawled under her armor, she needs to _get over it,_ get back here, and plug in. Or - something. Whatever it takes to get straight answers out of Metroplex's thick skull.

When he turns around, the panel beside the door displays a soft blue set of glyphs. 

[Wind-voice?]

"I'm _going,_ I'm going," Starscream says, rolling his eyes. 


	3. Chapter 3

\---

_Never trust a mech with their needles in your neck._

\- Megatron of Tarn, <<Towards Peace>>

\---

Arcee finds him before he can find Windblade.

Under any other circumstances, Starscream would be impressed by Windblade's newfound ability to disappear completely and not turn up instantly on the radar of any Decepticon worth their coolant. 

Under these circumstances, he's incandescent with rage. It simmers under the surface as he's forcibly dragged into the mire of directing the evacuation of the planet. The second he touches down at the government headquarters, he's bombarded by demands from his own people, from Rattrap's people, from the slagging media, from Ironhide, from the media (again), from the Council of Worlds - from everyone but the energon dispensers themselves. He won't willingly delegate to Rattrap anymore, either, which triples his workload. 

He deliberately procrastinates on the Council. Explaining Unicron to the Mistress of Flame sounds like his idea of a terrible time. If Starscream so much as _thinks_ Windblade's designation in that mech's presence, she'll start pompously blathering on about blasphemy again. Worse, she'll bring Optimus Prime into it. Hideously annoying, that. Starscream intends to prevent word from reaching Earth for as long as he conceivably can. The humans don't want them there, and the feeling is very mutual for most mechs whose names don't rhyme with 'rhyme.'

Arcee's lounging against the wall beside the window of his office when Starscream staggers back in, a sleepless day later. No sign of Wheeljack - Starscream's viciously, bitterly relieved - but Onslaught and Vortex have ostensibly been guarding the door since Starscream left. 

Which makes it even more annoying that Arcee bypassed his very extensive security system. "I'm a bit busy, here. Liege Maximo is officially unimportant, as of yesterday," he informs her, too exhausted to care about the energy blade she's tossing in one hand to entertain herself. The ache in his helm is a constant companion; his processor vents run on a low, constant cycle, trying to cool the latent heat from his processor.

Her optics gleam with ruthless amusement as his expense. She shrugs and slips the de-powered blade back into her wrist. "We've picked up the trail again," she says, a faint, crooked smile on her face as she watches Starscream pour himself a cube of energon from the dispenser. "He's holed up on Luna-2. Probably concealing any communication signals of his own behind that massive energy transmission shooting off into space."

"As far as I'm concerned, he can stay u- how the frag do you know about _that,_ " Starscream says, without pause, as the implications of that catch up with him. Another tick, and he tosses the energon cube back down on the table so hard that it sloshes over the sides. Arcee's not a _subtle_ assassin, but he's not hungry anymore.

"Wheeljack. Obviously." Arcee sinks back against the wall. Her stealth armor blends into the shadows so well that it leaves an unnerving error in Starscream's sensors. Her energon-pink biolights are the only thing that stand out. "Take it up with him, if you've got a problem with it."

Starscream would rather die. "Oh, by all means. Be my guest," he says, with a snort and a derisive bow.

Another artless shrug. Arcee's yellow optics are mirthless. "Whatever." 

If she's going to run around and do it anyway, he should at least _try_ to rein her in. Starscream doesn't have any delusions of controlling someone like Arcee, though. No one can. "Just don't let the Carcerians catch you mucking around between here and there. I won't give Elita-1 the satisfaction of recapturing Liege Maximo on her own terms," he says, casually. He picks up the cube of energon and swirls it, but can't summon up a sneer convincing enough to be worth the trouble.

Instead, he just stares at Arcee's back as she walks toward the door, his expression flat and remote.

"Hm? The Vigilant?" she muses. Then she barks a laugh and hops up into the open ceiling vent with unnerving ease. "Well, at least you know how to challenge a girl. Go back to brooding, or whatever it is you do up here."

Starscream stares at the hole in his ceiling as Arcee vanishes into the twisted maze of the ventilation system.

"What did you call them?" he asks the empty room.

-

Dealing with Swindle takes considerably less time than it used to. The looming apocalypse just gives him an excuse to make more profit by jacking up the prices. Thanks to Airachnid's judicious reconstruction of Swindle's memories, he's more than happy to bargain with Starscream over the parts on Starscream's list. 

Unfortunately, it's also made Swindle _chattier_ than before his temporary stint at brain death - a feat Starscream hadn't thought possible _._ He keeps up a constant stream of _talk_ while Starscream follows him around one of Swindle's many (many) storage spaces, under the mistaken impression that he and Starscream are such _good_ business partners.

And all the while Blast Off glares at the back of Starscream's neck like he wants to rip his head off. 

He'll have to fight Windblade for the privilege.

A few of the parts he requires will need to be expedited - for a steep markup - if they're going to ship to Cybertron in time. By the time Starscream extricates himself from Swindle's cheerful haggling, his headache pounds through his helm with blinding insistence. 

Too many mistakes. Too many slag-fisted political maneuvers welded together with organic glue and paper clips and _mnemosurgery_. Onslaught is Starscream's recent disaster personified, and the thought of what could happen if Airachnid betrays him keeps Starscream up at night. A few false memories stapled over the brain damage, and a nudge for Onslaught to notice Blast Off's embarrassingly obvious crush, won't hold the Combaticons for long.

At the time he didn't have any other options. None that would have kept his uncertain grip over Cybertron intact. She slid right into Starscream's machinations with suspicious, fluid ease, and now half of Starscream's most explosive problems all rely on the questionable integrity of someone he has no leverage over. Starscream can _hear_ Megatron's voice taunting him. _Never trust someone with their needles in your neck_ is an old, old Decepticon saying, straight from the mech himself. Megatron deteriorated into a walking catastrophe long before the end of the war, but his enduring hatred - and standing kill order - for all mnemosurgeons never faded. 

Starscream needs to neutralize Airachnid soon, before she decides to set off the ticking time bomb of the Combaticons. Last he heard, she's back on Eukaris, and she can _stay_ there until this latest crisis is over. 

But Blast Off is still here. 

"We need to talk," the Combaticon says, tersely, when Starscream finishes negotiating with Swindle. 

"Don't you have a sadist to woo?" Starscream replies, optics flashing a warning when Blast Off tries to start his vocalizer again. Blast Off shifts his weight but says nothing as Swindle returns to collect credit, and miraculously _holds his fragging tongue_ until they're out of the warehouse and down one of the backroads.

"I can't do this anymore," Blast Off bursts out, as soon as they're alone. Under the ever-present animosity, there's something vulnerable in his tone.

Vulnerability - Starscream can work with that. "Oh?" he says, feigning disinterest by glancing around at the waste and scrap metal piled up around them. Rattrap would be right at home, in this dump. The infrastructure work neglected in Metroplex's absence has been largely forgotten as everyone prepares to leave the planet.

"Look, just - bring her back, and make her take it away." Blast Off's vocalizer cracks and spits static. Energon drips from his clenched hands as the tips of his fingers dig into his palm. "I don't care what you have her do to me, but I can't do this to him anymore."

Starscream's not a believer, but _Primus preserve him_ from idiots with second thoughts. "You have such a way with words. Try that again, and this time, talk something other than babbling nonsense," he snaps, flaring his wings with impatience. 

"Your nudge. It's not real. I shouldn't have agreed to it in the first place. We'll be your bodyguards, I don't _care_ , but I don't want him to - to care about me because of a lie!"

It isn't a lie - just a slight shift in perspective, according to Airachnid. Onslaught's dangerously sharp mind could strategize like no other, but couldn't detect Blast Off's sickeningly sweet little crush right under his nose. Just a little nudge - so he would _notice_ \- and the rest followed in kind. A gift, to keep Blast Off happy and mum on the subject of - well, everything.

According to Airachnid.

Starscream wants to purge his tanks again, but that might just be his autonomic systems protesting his critical lack of recharge. He pinches the bridge of his nose to distract himself from the relentless onslaught of warning pings. "Ridiculous. I'm not bringing Airachnid back to a planet in the process of evacuating. If you can't leave this alone until after we handle the latest iteration of our impending demise, then break up with him yourself!" 

Blast Off's fists tremble at his sides. "That's not fair," he says, clipped, his voice thick with clotted emotion.

" _Life_ isn't fair." Starscream cycles a vent and struggles to think. It's difficult to care about Blast Off and his tiny problems when Starscream has so much else going on - but he can't let himself be overwhelmed. Not again. "We'll discuss this later," he says, modifying his tone to something mollifying.

No promises he'll regret. Just a scrap, to keep Blast Off from imploding on him. He does _not_ need Airachnid sticking her nose into everything right now, but if it'll get Blast Off off his back...

After a moment, the Combaticon jerks his head in a nod. "Yeah. Later," Blast Off says, quietly.

Good enough.

Starscream's sensors track him around the corner as Blast Off turns and shuffles back to Swindle.

\---

_Our calculations show that Cybertron will face a critical energy crisis within the next four million solar cycles. 98.6% of the natural liquid energon reservoirs beneath the crust have already been fully drained. Solid energon ore mining cannot sustain our current population in the long run; it, too, appears to be nonrenewable. We could crack our planet to the core, and it still would not be sufficient. Alternative energy resources must be secured, for the sake of Cybertron's future._

_[But I fear this will not be enough. Our population will stagnate and begin to decline, if hot spot production has truly dropped off as drastically as Nova's reports indicate. Cybertronians will soon be as finite as our natural resources._

_I refuse to accept this.] 1_

\- Shockwave of Iacon, <<Speculative report on the effect of non-renewable energy limitations on Cybertronian longevity. []1 indicates material redacted by order of the Senate.>>

\---

By the fourth day, Starscream's ready to drop.

All things considered, the evacuation progresses in a timely fashion - no one is more surprised than Starscream himself. Mechs start to demand that they be allowed to bring all their belongings and furniture along to wherever they're evacuating - impossible, given their time constraints. Starscream starts to daydream about going back in time and waiting to announce the evacuation until the last minute, if only so everyone and their conjunx would stop haranguing the Council for permission to bring their favorite couch to Devisiun's very cramped refugee zone. 

Despite the warning, their options are still limited. Each of the colonies - those that are willing - can only support a small fraction of Cybertron's mixed population. Carcer refuses to take on passengers, though Elita-1 makes excuses with the media by claiming to be 'on guard' against the impending threat. Caminus is willing, but doesn't have the energy reserves to host many refugees. Velocitron simply doesn't have the space. Eukaris and Devisiun offer to take as many as they can, after some negotiation, but it's not enough. 65% of Cybertron's population will be stuck on crowded space ships, with orders to fly to the nearest mechanical-friendly system if Cybertron itself can't be saved.

Like frag is Starscream sending anyone to Earth. Optimus Prime's little 'imperialism for protoforms' experiment will be their last resort.

The strain placed on Metroplex's space bridge by ushering a constant flow of mechs through to Devisiun and Eukaris throws the cityspeakers into fresh fits of dithering. If all else fails, Metroplex needs to be ready to bridge himself out - yet the cityspeakers can't even promise Starscream that much. Starscream bangs his head against his desk and thinks curse-riddled thoughts in Windblade's general direction.

The Mistress of Flame demands concrete proof of the threat at the end of the fourth day.

Starscream forwards her the Unicron transmission and strolls out into the night before puke starts flying all over the council chambers. 

He keeps walking. His wings ache and groan in strange places; his processor stopped throbbing a few hours ago, and is now a leaden weight on his shoulders. He has, he suspects, reached the limits of how much recharge-deprivation a mech can handle.

Instead of returning to his office, he walks to the edge of the city - and then out, further still, onto the Sea of Rust. 

He finds Wheeljack a few kilometers from the singularity. It hovers in the distance, a black spot against the dark sky. Scorch marks streak the barren grey terrain. The temperature dips without warning in isolated, jagged pockets, as the singularity turns silently on its axis - or as the world turns around _it._

Wheeljack sits on the crest of a metal ridge, next to a hastily-constructed rocket platform, isolated in the center of the vast wasteland Shockwave left behind. 

Starscream could shoot him, so easily. No witnesses out here.

(Metalhawk never got a chance to betray him like Wheeljack has.)

He walks stiffly up the ridge instead. He doesn't trust his thrusters to carry him up - not with the state his processor's in. Bumblebee comes up through the floor beside Wheeljack a moment later, staring pointedly at Starscream as though to silently reprimand him.

Of course. There's always a witness. 

Starscream flops down on the ground; a slight delay in his right leg's response time dumps him on his aft with a grunt. Wheeljack startles, his optics round as saucers. Starscream lounges and pretends to have fallen on purpose. "Any progress?" 

An awkward pause ticks by. Starscream doesn't look at him. "Starscream. Didn't expect to see you out here," Wheeljack says, still hesitant.

Starscream flexes his hand and flares his fingers out before him, clicking his vocalizer in dismissal. "All our functioning combiners are on standby, and if I go within five hundred meters of the council chambers I'll have to explain this all over again for the fiftieth time today." He wrinkles his nose in disdain. "Give me good news."

Another stilted pause. "Well, I've got...news."

"Mmf. Carry on."

In his peripheral vision, Wheeljack shifts. Starscream doesn't look at him, doesn't look, can't look - 

"The ETA is probably accurate. Nine days, now, give or take a few hours on either side. From what I can tell with preliminary scans, a planetary body approximately twice the size of Cybertron is en route to collide with us, but it isn't in any particular hurry. The probe I sent up last week should be in range to transmit visuals as well as audio in a couple days." 

Starscream sprawls out on his back and flings an arm over his optics to block out the sky. Blocking out any view of Wheeljack is merely a bonus. "Riveting."

Wheeljack pats the rocket between them. Starscream's proximity sensors spike with anxiety, then subside. "I'm about to send up a replacement satellite. It should redirect the energy transmission luring Unicron here. Maybe buy us some more time."

'Maybe' doesn't give Starscream very high hopes. They aren't that lucky. "Wonderful," he mumbles. The back of his arm looks far darker than he remembers. 

"But I can't stop the energy pulse itself. Not without knowing where the source is." Wheeljack's vocalizer hums faintly; a familiar quirk that comes out when Wheeljack is consulting his datapad. Starscream hasn't heard it in - well. Some time. "My instruments indicate it's coming from deep within the core. Deeper than Crystal City used to be. Not an easy place to reach."

"And let me guess. Even if you redirect the signal, the fragger will keep bumbling toward us." Starscream's audio receptors fuzz out for a moment. The sound of his own voice comes from a long way off.

"No way to tell. But it can't hurt." 

A hand brushes over Starscream's helm. "You doing alright?" Wheeljack asks, softly.

His arm isn't dark - _his optics are off._

Starscream rips away from Wheeljack's grip and comes up in a crouch, dragging an energy blade out of his subspace and igniting it. Red sparks bleed off the end, illuminating the Sea around them in uneven, unnatural patterns. 

Wheeljack sits there, frozen. His hands are empty. 

Starscream wishes he would try to look like a threat. A convenient excuse would make Starscream feel less off-balance. "I fail to see how that's _any_ of your concern," he says. His wings bristle, tension threaded through every panel. 

Bumblebee doesn't help matters. His hallucination stamps his foot, trying to incorporeally shove himself between the two of them. "Starscream, stop it!" he yells; it buzzes in Starscream's audials, barely coherent. "For once in your life, stop pushing people away! Look at you! You're a wreck!"

"Starscream, look," Wheeljack says, at the same time. He spreads his hands wide - no tools, no weapons. He waves one of them a little in what is probably some Autobot gesture of conciliation; all it does is set off another wave of alerts in Starscream's crowded, beleaguered HUD. He can barely think around them. "I'm sorry. Shouldn't have done that without asking."

And it would be _easy_. Starscream could fold here and drop hard, beside Wheeljack. Half of his processor - silly with recharge-deprivation, deluded - is convinced that it would be safe. Wheeljack was always safe, before. The other half drowns in proximity alerts, in a thousand urgent comm pings over the evacuation in progress. 

He wants, so badly, to lay down and sleep.

A yellow hand comes down on Starscream's sword hand. "Heads up. It's Windblade," Bumblebee says, quiet but urgent. Trying to talk him down. 

Starscream's locked up, staring at Wheeljack's dark-rimmed optics without seeing them. "How would you even begin to know that?" he mutters under his breath. A faint tremor runs through his sword arm.

"Just because you're the only one that can see me doesn't mean I can't look around on my own time," Bumblebee says. His exasperation is familiar; Starscream grasps that and uses it to drag his processor away from the impending crash. 

"You're not even _real_." Then the long-range sensors filter through the muddle of Starscream's HUD, and he twitches. He breaks eye contact with Wheeljack to glower at the sky. "Oh, for frag's sake, it's actually Windblade," he grumbles. She leaves a streak of electric blue light behind her as she flies - it's like she's flying herself out in front of a firing squad, yelling 'Please shoot me now!' every time she goes out in public. Maddening.

Bumblebee grumbles as Starscream reluctantly powers the sword down. "I don't know why I even bother anymore."

Across from him, Wheeljack's shoulders slump in relief. He presses his thumb into the ridge over his optic, with a quiet sound that makes Starscream flinch.

He distracts himself by scowling at Windblade as she comes in for a landing. "Office hours don't start until 0900 tomorrow, unless you have good news," he says, sitting down again with a huff. Wheeljack glances at him in surprise. His hand is still half raised, palm up. 

Windblade scowls right back. With her jagged face paint, she looks singularly unimpressed. "I brought energon," she informs him, passing a sealed cube to Wheeljack.

When she tries to shake a cube in front of Starscream's face, he side eyes it with a snort. "This is the single most blatant attempt at poisoning me that I've had the embarrassment to live through since Ramjet tried to aerosolize tainted energon at a command meeting, and wound up high as a kite under the table while the DJD tried and failed to interrogate him." 

Windblade, having lived a charmed life, has no idea what the DJD is. "It's not poisoned," she insists. The cube narrowly misses Starscream's vent as she jams it in front of his face, and he takes it just to make her stop waggling it around. She unseals the lid of her own cube and rolls her optics at him as she takes a sip. "Just drink it, Starscream."

"Tasting the poison yourself when you've already taken the antidote? Please. I _invented_ that trick." 

"Head's up. Give it here." 

Wheeljack plucks the cube from Starscream's loose grip. Starscream blinks, at a loss, and in a deft motion Wheeljack unseals the cube and drinks before handing it back. Starscream closes his hand on the cube automatically when it knocks against his hand, and continues to stare at Wheeljack in affronted shock. "We good?" Wheeljack asks, as he pretends to busy himself with his datapad. Windblade sits on Wheeljack's far side, draining her energon as she gazes up at the night sky. 

They're not good. At all.

Starscream's rebellious processor makes him take a sip, anyway. 

When his lips don't immediately begin to bubble and fizz, he admits that it might not be laced with acid. "Fine. I concede that you're either not attempting to poison me, or it isn't one I can detect. In which case, I applaud your sudden burst of ingenuity." He raises his cube to Windblade and Wheeljack in a toast. On his right, Bumblebee begins to clap, sarcastically. Fragger.

And for a few minutes, they sit there in silence. Between the three of them, Starscream supposes, they know the most about Unicron - no need to badger each other with questions. 

He's sure they'll find a way to disappoint him, anyway. Considering who he's dealing with here.

Sure enough, Windblade rocks back on her heels, venting hard. "I've been doing research," she says, conversationally. "Which is a little difficult, when every major archive on Cybertron was apparently destroyed or corrupted during the course of your war. But I did manage to locate a neutral who could tell me more about cold construction, and the lead up to it."

"Oh? Who?" Wheeljack asks. He doesn't look up from his datapad, as he inputs the trajectory for the rocket. 

"Repository."

Requiem's old name. Maybe they've used it since going neutral; Starscream never asked. "Ah." Windblade and Wheeljack both glance at him, two shades of blue optics in the dark, and Starscream clears his throat. "Old Decepticon partisan, before they went neutral. Well. Better than any Autobot you could have scrounged up. And this is relevant to our lives...how?"

The energon settles oddly in his dry tanks; if it were any richer, he'd have trouble keeping it down. Wheeljack shakes his head at the comment about Autobots. As if it isn't true. 

Windblade just looks frustrated. "Even they said that no one knows _why._ The hot spots. No one ever knew why they died out."

She's still on about this? This is so seven million years ago. 

"People had theories. None of them gathered a lot of steam before everything went sideways," Wheeljack says. He taps the screen of the datapad and the rocket's final calculations and a diagram of the trajectory project into the air before them. The motes of blue and green light flicker in the dark.

Starscream shakes his head. "If Shockwave were still around, he could give you the classic energy crisis lecture. I think the longest recorded instance of someone sitting through that spiel lasted approximately three weeks, and the DJD tried to put a hit out on him for copying Tarn's M.O.." He sips the energon again, and is surprised to find the cube is empty. He didn't realize he was that hungry. He drops it unceremoniously on the ground beside him, where it clatters and rolls away through Bumblebee's insubstantial leg. "I always wished someone would pit him and Prowl against each other to see who could monologue the other to death first."

"Neither. Ultra Magnus would win," Wheeljack says, without hesitation.

"The DJD?" Windblade repeats, frowning with confusion.

Starscream's not touching that one with a fifty-meter pole. He folds his knee and drums his fingers. "Long story. Still irrelevant. Moving on."

Windblade cycles a vent. The faint, erratic wind bending around the singularity picks up, nearly drowning her quiet words. "I think that it might explain why Metroplex takes so long to recover."

That's - new. Starscream expects it's just a new excuse in a steady stream of them, but he has time. And apparently, gossiping with Autobots is his new idea of a good time. "I'm listening."

"Titans, we..." Windblade falters, then starts again. Wheeljack tilts his head to the side, audials angled toward her. "Sorry. Titans have several means of refueling themselves and obtaining the sheer amount of resources they need to sustain themselves. For Caminus, we activated all of them - solar, nuclear, roots, everything. But the planet was too resource poor, and what Caminus brought from Cybertron wasn't enough. Once our star started to go, it was too late." She tilts her head back further still. "Metroplex often sends error messages, no matter how much we import and funnel into his fuel tanks. Whatever happened to Cybertron, I think it's having the same effect. Metroplex can't draw the resources he needs from the planet to restore himself because it's dead."

Starscream wishes the cube hadn't rattled away, so he could smash it against the ground. "So in other words, it's useless. The hulking wreck will never be at 100% again, and there's no point in draining our coffers dry trying to fix it," he mutters, casting a glance over his shoulder. Metroplex isn't visible around Iacon from this angle, but it's the thought that counts. 

On his right, Bumblebee frowns. 

"That's not what I meant! Surely there must be a way to fix it." Windblade sounds desperate to believe it. Well, considering the fact that the Mistress of Flame banished her from Caminus, Starscream guesses she's invested herself in Cybertron. Unfortunate. 

"Fix what? The planet? Does it look like we can afford to waste time on that?" Starscream waves a hand grandly at the sky - at Carcer's looming shadow, dark against the silvery moon, and at the dark void of space beyond that. Where Unicron waits. 

Wheeljack pats Windblade's shoulder sympathetically. A jolt runs through Starscream, hot and furious. He jerks his face away so they can't see his expression anymore, and grits his teeth as his optics burn too hot.

"Shockwave's grand plan to solve the energy crisis involved shooting energy ore all over the galaxy and then turning himself into a singularity, and he spent millions of years researching the problem," Wheeljack says, gesturing toward the singularity with his chin. 

"Then again, he was also completely insane. So there's that," Starscream adds, forcing his vocalizer to lighten up. It partially works; a glitch cracks through it at the last moment. Bumblebee turns his frown on Starscream for a moment, and a flicker of sympathy wrinkles his forehead.

Starscream doesn't want his pity. 

"I wish I could ask him more about all this. About Unicron, and about what happened to Cybertron," Windblade says, quietly. Probably not talking about Shockwave, then. 

If she's been having trouble getting in to see Metroplex, it's not Starscream's problem. _She_ recused herself. _She_ lost her temper with the Mistress of Flame. 

Ugh. He's going to have to help her sneak in, isn't he. They need more intel on Unicron, preferably before the heat death of the universe arrives - which is how long it would take for those useless cityspeakers up there right now to get Starscream the same information. Windblade can interpret Metroplex's thoughts in mere moments, these days; earlier in the week, her translation was almost seamless.

"Right. Here goes." Wheeljack taps the screen one last time, and the small rocket bursts into motion. The roar of its engines rumbles in Starscream's ears as it shoots up into the sky and vanishes, little more than a streak of heat on Starscream's sensors. Wheeljack's fingers fly across the datapad as he initiates secondary engines and opens a new window to expand the readouts. 

Starscream lays down on his back, angling his wings so they're not pinned under him, and continues to scan Wheeljack's datapad from behind. The angle means Wheeljack's back blocks most of the view, and Starscream looks away when he finds himself focused on the transformation seams between Wheeljack's shoulders. 

"They could help you," Bumblebee says. Quietly, at that pitch where he sounds indistinguishable from Starscream's internal thought process. Deceptive, for an Autobot. His transparent frame flickers in time with the pulse of the singularity. 

Starscream tries to ignore him. Bumblebee continues, unrelenting, even when Starscream dims his optics. "Eventually, you have to trust someone. You keep lashing out and treating everyone like a potential enemy, and you really will always be alone." 

A low blow. Starscream grinds his teeth together, the strut of his jaw clenched. 

"You're already at least a quarter of the way there right now. Things might not have gotten as bad as they did last month if you -"

Starscream wrenches upright and punches the ground. Punching Bumblebee never helps. "I _did_ trust him!" he snarls. "Spare me the Autobot guilt trip!"

"The what now?" Wheeljack says.

Starscream's tanks drop out from under him. He glares at Bumblebee, but his face won't cooperate - it's too busy being frozen with fear. 

Bumblebee returns the stare. That useless, pathetic pity is back.

Starscream forces his wings down and sits ramrod straight. Controlled. He doesn't look at Windblade or Wheeljack. "Never mind," he says, stiff with irritation. 

The crawling sensation of being _caught_ turns the energon in his tanks. 

Windblade spares him. "Have you heard anything from Chromia?" she asks, barely more than a mumble. She rests her chin on her hand as she looks out over the landscape, thoughtful and distant. 

Or maybe - somehow - she just wasn't paying attention when Starscream had his little outburst. She seems distracted. 

Starscream ignores Wheeljack's radiating concern. "They've found some kind of trail. I expect to hear more when it's most inconvenient for me. We've got bigger things to worry about than Liege Maximo," he tells Windblade, rubbing his temples. He doesn't mention Arcee. Life would be vastly simpler if Arcee would go back to being Prime's problem.

"He won't leave," Windblade murmurs, absentmindedly. "Or at least, he won't go far. I - nnh."

She rubs her chest with her knuckles, and sighs.

"What's up?" Wheeljack turns his frown on her. Good.

Windblade summons a wan smile for Wheeljack. "Nothing. Sorry."

Starscream's lip curls. "I suppose you two come out here often," he snaps, before biting his glossa. He doesn't care. _He doesn't care._

"Not really. Extenuating circumstances," Windblade says, with another vent. She turns her morose gaze back up to the sky.

This time, Starscream grunts and leans back, aiming his sour glare at Carcer up above.

"Huh," Wheeljack comments, a moment later. "I think the moon is on fire." A pause. "Hope that wasn't me."

Starscream resets his optics and focuses past Elita-1's corpse-ship. 

Sure enough, an explosion large enough to be seen from Cybertron lights up a segment in the lower hemisphere of Luna-2.

Don't let Carcer notice you, he said. Fragging pit. "Arcee. She suspected Liege was up there," Starscream says with a groan, burying his face in his hands. So he gets to deal with _this_ clusterfrag when the Council convenes in the morning...

It only takes one sentence.

He should have realized sooner, in retrospect.

Windblade whips around and stares at Starscream in abject horror. "You set the Raging Death of the Darklands on my Liege?!" she shrieks, her optics -

\- her bright red optics - 

They all sit frozen for a fraction of a second.

Then Starscream's battle HUD _slams_ through the exhausted haze, and he seizes Wheeljack by the arm. The scientist's datapad goes flying out of his hands as Starscream throws him bodily over the launch platform. 

"Oh, frag it all," Vigilem says, as Starscream rips both swords out of subspace and lunges for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFWiki: Vigilem is dead!!!
> 
> Me: Foolish™...


	4. Chapter 4

\---

_We are being...decepticated._

\- Misfire of Pretendia, <<source unknown[citation needed]>>

\---

"It's not what you think!" Vigilem protests.

Starscream tackles him over the edge of the ridge. 

"Not! Again!" Wheeljack yells. The shout follows Starscream down as they drop sixty meters. Starscream's reflexes have his thrusters boosting to dull the impact; Vigilem, distracted by trying to deflect Starscream's first stab, hits with a crunch. He scrambles out of the way of Starscream's next strike with a snarl, twisting Windblade's face into something unrecognizable. 

Faster than Windblade - better reflexes, even if Vigilem's used to a larger frame. 

Her face paint is so much more angular than any of the new cityspeakers. How did Starscream not notice she was wearing the wrong face?

"Starscream - stop!" Vigilem ducks under Starscream's swing. Starscream's tactical processes chug like they're tacky with syrup, but he sees how Vigilem moves like a ground alt would. He takes advantage of Windblade's lighter frame to slip under Starscream's guard, but forgets to keep track of the wings. 

"I'm going to _squash_ that spider," Starscream says, as he grabs Vigilem's flared wing and uses the leverage to flip him off his feet. 

"Listen to me! Airachnid did remove Vigilem from my processor!" Vigilem lies through his teeth, as he shoves off the ground and rolls up in a fighting stance. Solid, feet planted squarely, like a mech who expects to have the weight and armor to take a hit and keep on coming. Starscream drives him backward; sparks crackle off Vigilem's armor as he dodges and blocks. "But I downloaded part of him - oof! - into my spark, and -"

Starscream spies an opening and kicks Vigilem square in the chest. "Oh, please. Who do you think you're dealing with?" he says, stalking around as the Titan tries to kick his feet out from under him. Vigilem's furious purple optics glare up at him, stark against Windblade's pale face. "I've been lying for four million years. I expected a better effort from someone as overhyped as Liege's Titan."

Two options, really - kill Vigilem, and whatever's left of Windblade by extension, or incapacitate her (somehow), find a different mnemosurgeon ( _somehow_ ), and repeat this whole fiasco from the beginning.

He wishes he weren't hesitating. It's annoying.

Starscream realizes that his processor's spitting out garbage readouts when Wheeljack tackles him from the side, without any warning from his proximity alerts. Sloppy. He should have heard Wheeljack's screeching tires as he rocketed down the ridge. "Get off me, Wheeljack!" Starscream growls, kicking his way free. 

Wheeljack takes an elbow to the solar plexus, and grimly keeps holding on. "I'm not letting you kill someone again! For frag's sake, Starscream, stop making things worse!" he says, his ventilation system stuttering in a wheeze. He struggles to keep Starscream pinned as he thrashes. "Just - stop! Why are you like this?! This won't help anything!" His vocalizer cracks. He sounds like Bumblebee, or maybe Bumblebee's talking at the same time -

Vigilem stands up. 

Starscream flips Wheeljack over and shoves him against the ground. "Oh, for - it's not Windblade! If you hadn't decided to run around all cozy with Rattrap, you'd know what kind of danger we're in!"

Something more cutting and painful than fury spikes through him at the reminder. Wheeljack stares up at him bleakly, not understanding, _because he wasn't there._ Starscream's sword waits right here in his hand, and the real question isn't why Wheeljack betrayed him - Starscream doesn't care - it's why hasn't Starscream killed both of these two meddling idiots yet. Why put off the inevitable?!

And then he hears the words he's always dreamed of.

"Wheeljack. Starscream's right," Vigilem says. He shakes his head, the heel of his palm grinding into the armor over Windblade's spark. His face twists up in a grimace as he watches Starscream. "Just stop trying to stab me for two seconds, so we...can explain."

'We.' As if Starscream's going to fall for that. 

Wheeljack touches his face. "Please. Stop."

Starscream jerks back and stares down at him, livid. Wheeljack lets his fingers curl and fall back against the ground. Head tipped back (throat exposed), optics dim (no targeting system) -

"I know I don't have the right to ask."

That's not fair. 

Starscream shoves off of him and stands up to glower at Vigilem properly. He doesn't lower the swords.

Vigilem rolls his optics at him. It's a very Windblade expression. "Carcer is not the Titan Carcer. They lied," Vigilem tells Wheeljack, stiff, stilted. "One of the Thirteen Primes, Liege Maximo, and his Titan Vigilem, started the war between Primes. When they were caught, Liege Maximo was imprisoned in Vigilem, and Vigilem was lobotomized. A prisoner in his own mind. The Carcerians were his keepers." Two fingers reach up to brush the reinforced port in the side of her head. "I freed them by mistake, by merging with Vigilem's mind to help fight off the undead Titans."

Starscream points a sword at Vigilem - Windblade - can he really tell? "And she was _possessed._ That slagging mnemosurgeon was supposed to get him out! How much longer until you fry her processor, Vigilem?!"

Vigil-Windblade glares at him. "Starscream. It's me," she says, exasperated. (Don't fall for it.) "Vigilem is not in my processor anymore. Turns out a spark can handle a Titan's mind better than a brain module. We've been...talking."

Wheeljack stands, slowly. He raises his hands as he eases between the two of them, his eyes flicking from Starscream's tense battle stance to Windblade's slumped shoulders. "Good. That's good. Talking is good," he says, eyeing Starscream's blades pointedly. As if he wants Starscream to put them away.

Starscream doesn't trust either of them. They're not trustworthy. No one is, naturally, but that's not the point. These two are _especially_ untrustworthy. "Prove it. Convince me Windblade's still the one running the show. Make me trust you," he says, with a mocking lilt as he sneers at Windblade.

Windblade's mouth pops open. She mouths wordlessly a few times, her vocalizer spluttering. 

Then she throws up her hands. "Seriously? Starscream, you would never trust me in a million years!"

Slag. It is her.

Starscream vents a sigh and reluctantly extinguishes the blades.

Now he has both of them staring at him in disbelief. Wheeljack's orbital ridges fly up. "Wait. That's it?"

"The real Windblade knows I trust no one. You're clear. For now," Starscream says, primly.

Windblade slaps her hand against her face. "Unbelievable. We have bigger problems, anyway."

"I can think of an easy way to get rid of one!" Starscream waves the depowered hilt of his sword in Windblade's general direction.

"Stabbing people is not a solution!" Wheeljack and Bumblebee say, in complete unison. 

He waves his hand dismissively. "Don't be ridiculous, Wheeljack, of course it is."

"Have you seriously not noticed yet that killing people causes you _more_ problems?!" Wheeljack exclaims. 

"Discuss this later! Problem now!" Windblade says.

When Starscream and Wheeljack finally look at her, she points up at the sky. "There's no way that Liege Maximo sat around waiting for Arcee and Chromia to capture him," she says, grimly, with an odd edge to her voice. 

The optics make things easier. They're caught somewhere between blue and purple again.

"Oh," Wheeljack says. He pops open a panel on his wrist to reveal a secondary data screen embedded in his arm. The projection HUD over his eye flares back to life as he reads some new readout off the screen. "Slag. Did someone just teleport onto Carcer? That was a huge energy burst."

"No. Liege Maximo teleported," Windblade corrects him, her optics shining violet, "onto Vigilem. He's coming to free me."

-

Vigilem falls out of the sky in gradual stages, far more slowly than when Windblade sent him plummeting out of orbit. A massive black shadow against the night sky, dropping inexorably toward Iacon.

Somehow, Starscream doesn't think Elita's in control.

Wheeljack follows on the ground. Starscream and Windblade quickly pull ahead as they skim over the Sea of Rust.

VVB: I'm going to aim for Metroplex.  
SS: That is disturbing. You know that, right?  
VVB: I'm not the only one talking to myself though, am I?  
WJ: What's the plan, exactly?   
WB: Just get us in there. Whatever Liege Maximo is doing, I can talk Vigilem down.  
SS: You think three weeks of living with him in your skull is enough for you to _win,_ this time?  
WB: Vigilem's not in my - what? Skull?  
WJ: Human processor chamber.  
WB: Finally! Thank you!  
SS: Shut up.  
WB: With any luck, Liege completed a new central processor. If we can download Vigilem from me into that, we should be able to negotiate. Even one of the ancillary processors will do, in a pinch.  
SS: Right. And he won't just immediately side with his Prime. Sounds fake, but okay.  
WJ: That does sound like a lot to take on faith.   
VVB: Liege Maximo doesn't know about Unicron. That changes things. We can work with that. Arrange a ceasefire.  
WB: Vigilem is willing to work together. I can feel it. Lies can't survive in a spark. It burns everything away, until all that remains is the truth.  
SS: That sounds even more fake.  
WB: I give up.  


-

At this point, invading Carcer is just standard operating procedure. Elita-1 is too much of a pain in Starscream's aft for him to care about diplomatic repercussions. It stopped being a concern around that time he let Windblade attack Carcer with Devastator, honestly, and he regrets nothing.

"Knock knock," Starscream says, smiling, as he carves his way through an outer hatch. 

Unamused, Windblade kicks the door the rest of the way in. 

Unfortunately, everyone and their conjunx is trying to reach the central processing chamber, and there's no time for stealth. They run into Elita-1 almost immediately. She bares her teeth, incensed, her optics glinting with fury as they round the corner. "How many times must I remove you people from my Titan?" she demands, her voice low and dangerous. 

Starscream mentally adjusts how far diplomatic immunity might carry them. Elita-1 won't hesitate before killing them, and she'll smile for the camera tomorrow morning without missing a beat.

It's a useful talent; Starscream knows, because he has it. Having it used against him is infuriating.

"Not yours. Never was," Windblade says, coldly. Her eyes glint with hungry, remorseless hate.

Vigilem.

Starscream seizes Windblade's elbow and hauls her back when Vigilem tries to stalk toward Elita-1 and her squad. "Shut _up,_ " he hisses, twisting his fingers into the crunched armor where Windblade hit the ground. 

Anger surges across Vigilem's face; then Windblade shakes her head and tugs her arm free.

"This is a gross violation of Carcer's sovereignty. What is this, the second time now? The third? The Council will hear about this, Starscream," Elita-1 says. She's tracking the conversation, Starscream knows, her blue optics absorbing their interplay with hard distrust. Calculating. Wondering.

If Vigilem gives the game away now, Elita won't bother with tossing them in the brig and dragging them up before the Council. She'll just kill them.

"The amount that I care is rapidly approaching zero. I'll let you know when it crosses into the negatives," Starscream says, airily. The blatant disrespect sets the squad of Carcerians bristling. 

They're better than Camiens - he'll give them credit for that. Vigilem's jailers honed themselves to a fine edge over the years: improved armor, stringent training regimes, guns upgraded by trade with aliens, constant vigilance. Ha. He wouldn't want to take any of them on in a straight fight, let alone Elita or Strika. 

Still not warbuilds. Still not _Starscream_. 

He blasts through the ceiling and drops it on top of them. Elita's furious snarl blends with the crash of metal and the squad fires, energy shots burning through the air with trained accuracy, despite the confusion. 

They fire where Starscream _used_ to be. Windblade follows him up through the fresh gap in the ceiling. An electric blue pulse clips her foot thruster at the last second as she clears the gap, and when she transforms to land she drags it behind her with a grim, violet determination in her eyes. "We need to go up," she calls over the sound of gunfire. 

The floor shudders before they make it more than a few meters. Starscream whirls in time to see Elita claw her way up from the hole. 

She is, in a word, pissed. 

"You're not going anywhere." She starts firing at once, and Starscream and Windblade duck behind the ceiling supports on either side of the hall as the energy pulses sizzle past them. Said ceiling supports are, Starscream notes, made out of people. Good grief. "As far as I'm concerned, you can both rot with the Liege when we drag him back to his cell. Your frames aren't worth the salvage. It would be an insult to those who came before."

"I'm going to dump you down a garbage disposal! It's going to be so! Satisfying!" Windblade yells back, slamming a fist against the wall. 

Starscream is going to _strangle_ Vigilem. It's physically impossible, but he'll find a way. He uses his motion sensors to get a rough idea of where Elita's standing, then fires around the corner of his cover without looking. Every second they're pinned down here, more of Elita's people can converge on their location. They're so outnumbered it's not even funny. Starscream's good, but fighting in close confines like this isn't his specialty. He pulls his gun-hand back when Elita's next round of shots graze the edge of his cover and assesses his options.

Options become option, singular, when the wall down the hallway explodes. 

Arcee steps out into the middle of the hall. She's twirling someone's torn cables around in a circle with one hand, her expression bored as she smirks. "Ah. There you all are," she says, cracking her neck to the side. Menacingly. "Vigilant. Starscream. Windblade."

At least she's not pink anymore. One mech sadistic enough to paint themselves the color of energon is more than enough for one fight, thank you.

Elita's weapon cuts off for a second, but only because more Carcerians are advancing down the hall on the far side of Arcee. "I don't know who you think you are," Elita says, her mouth curled in disapproval. Authoritative. Uncompromising. "But you are surrounded. And we are well past the point of playing nice."

Mistake number one - not shooting Arcee on sight. Starscream almost feels sorry for them.

"Really?" Arcee's smirk widens. And widens. She draws her own seething pink blades as she smiles. "All I'm surrounded by are dead mechs."

"Windblade! Through here!"

Instantly, Windblade bolts for the hole behind Arcee. Starscream curses and flings himself after her as the hallway lights up with gunfire and Arcee's frankly terrifying laughter.

Chromia is waiting for them, ax in hand. Windblade crashes into her as Starscream skids through the hole, and the two Camiens catch each other in a crushing hug. "Chromia! How did you get here?" Windblade asks, burying her face against Chromia's shoulder.

"A teleporter, on Luna-2. We followed Liege's last coordinates but lost him. This place is a maze." Unlike Arcee's pristine armor, Chromia looks like she lived through an explosion - blue plating scorched and scored from shrapnel. 

Her optics spark at the corners. "And you - you're okay. You're okay," Chromia says, quietly.

\---

_I hope it was everything you'd wished for, because this is what it's like when **you** get what you want._

\- Megatron of Tarn, to Starscream of Kaon

\---

They don't have time for the sentimental hugging nonsense. Starscream prods them into motion before the crashing sounds of Arcee doing what Arcee does best can burst through the wall and drag them back into the fight. Chromia automatically falls into position to guard Windblade's back and eyes Starscream with suspicion as Windblade leads them through Vigilem's corridors with preternatural ease. Most of the Carcerians in the vicinity run for the ongoing fight, distracted by the commotion. They're able to slip up through the bottleneck of Vigilem's neck to reach his head. 

It's impossible to tell from inside Vigilem what the Titan's body is doing. They've hit the ground, but Starscream can't detect any of the shuddering earthquakes of a Titan in motion. For some reason, that fails to improve his mood. 

"The processor chamber is up ahead. If Vigilem is right -" 

Windblade cuts off mid-sentence and slams on the brakes. Chromia narrowly avoids colliding with her. 

"He is already here," Vigilem says.

Liege Maximo glances up. Obsidian lays crumpled beneath his feet - torn nearly in half at the waist, energon pumping from open lines. "My apologies. Were you saying something?"

Liege Maximo is little more than an ordinary-sized mech, bottle green and grey. His armor shines, as glossy as Alpha Trion's is perpetually rusty, and he steps to face them with smooth, poised grace. His face is frighteningly beautiful. A cloak drapes around his shoulders, the torn hem the only indication of the millions of years Liege Maximo spent locked in a cage. 

The problem isn't him.

The problem is the familiar figure sinking her needles into the vast, freshly installed new Titan processor, nestled in the center of the chamber. He'd know the sharp, jutting limbs of that alt mode anywhere.

"Airachnid," Starscream says, raising his voice and slamming down on his vocalizer so it doesn't tremble. 

Airachnid looks up from her work, the black curves of paint under her eyes as damning as Windblade's face. She's extended the sharp lines down her angular cheeks for the occasion. _Stupid, stupid, **stupid**_. She clicks her vocalizer at Starscream, smiling derisively. "Tch. A shame," she says, lilting. "Not to worry. You won't remember this in the morning."

And he let her into his head.

Somewhere, Megatron is rolling with laughter at Starscream's expense. As always. 

"Cover us," Windblade says, urgently, and then she charges forward. 

Liege Maximo arches his brow. The faint, unreadable smile never leaves his face as he steps to intercept her. Chromia throws herself at him with a battle cry. Predictable as ever. 

Starscream shoots Airachnid in the hand. She yanks her needles free from the processor with a hiss of pain, sparks spilling from the sensitive neurocircuitry of her hand. Her arachnid limbs arch out from her back as she dodges and rolls out of the way of Starscream's next shot, and she comes up an immense spider. She darts toward him with terrifying speed, the outer shell of her armor deflecting his next few shots.

He pulls one of the swords instead and throws it. Airachnid dodges, her mandibles clattering in amusement - and the sword shears through Liege Maximo's side instead. The Prime stumbles back, energon sluicing from his side as his eyes narrow at Starscream. 

"I told you before. Get creative!" Starscream yells at Chromia.

Chromia grabs Starscream's sword off the ground and drives her elbow into Liege Maximo's knee, knocking him off balance. Then she leaps and lands on Airachnid's smooth back, stabbing the sword down into the Eukarian's abdomen as her feet scrabble for purchase. "Trying! So, am I pardoned of my crimes yet?"

Starscream rolls his eyes and swaps to focus on Liege Maximo instead. "Head! On! A stick!" he reminds her, firing at Liege Maximo until the Prime is forced away from Vigilem's new processor. Windblade kneels beside it as soon as it's clear, drawing a heavy merge cable from the panel in the floor. 

Then Starscream needs to focus, as Liege Maximo flicks something at him. It whizzes past Starscream with alarming speed - he pulls his head out of the way at the last second. Liege Maximo fans out his fingers to reveal more smooth black knives sliding from weapon slots. "You are all so young. Do you even know why you oppose me?" he asks, lightly, his tone musing as he easily spins away from Starscream's next shot. He doesn't move like an ancient old heap of slag - more's the pity. He dodges like he's dancing, like they're moving through a ritual rather than trying to kill each other. "Perhaps I can persuade you to do otherwise."

He didn't tear Obsidian in two with throwing knives and charm. Starscream grits his teeth and deliberately presses closer, against his better judgement. He keeps his gun primed and his sensors fixed on Windblade as he drives his way between Airachnid and Liege Maximo and the processor.

If Vigilem is lying, he needs a clear shot. 

"Tempting. But no," he says, grunting as one of Liege's knives catches the seam of his wrist. He rips it free and flips it backward in his gun-hand, tucked out of sight. 

Then the floor lurches under them with a deep, abiding rumble. Starscream stops to brace himself - but Liege steps forward effortlessly, his steps smooth, as though he has the rhythm of Vigilem's frame perfectly memorized. "Do you really believe you can take me in battle? Here, in Vigilem?" he says, his faint smile unfaltering as he knocks Starscream's sword aside. 

Starscream snarls and steps back to aim his gun. When Liege Maximo neatly dodges and reaches out to grapple for the gun, Starscream flips his hand around and slams the hidden blade into Liege Maximo's collar seam, where the subclavian and carotid fuel lines branch close to the surface. " _Easily_ ," Starscream retorts. 

And the floor shudders again, harder. In the brief moment of distraction, Liege Maximo seizes Starscream's arm and twists.

It nearly tears out of the socket, metal splintering and servos screaming as the joint crumples. Starscream gasps at the sudden, unexpected pain. Liege Maximo barely looks like he's exerting any effort at all; it's the kind of casual, cruel strength Starscream has only ever experienced at Megatron's hands. Liege applies the faintest pressure to pull Starscream closer, his smile edged with sympathy. "Much has been forgotten. Like the folly of facing a Prime in the Titan that loves him best."

"About that," Windblade says.

The panels of the floor ripple, and slam Liege Maximo to the side. Starscream yanks his dislocated arm free at the last moment and clutches it close.

Windblade's optics stream purple light as she stands up. She holds her hands out to either side, the interface cable following her as she closes one into a fist. The floor under Airachnid buckles - and there is no floor beneath that, or that, or the one under it, as the Eukarian shrieks and tumbles down into the depths of Vigilem to land with a crash several floors below them. Chromia scrambles away from the drop, her helm crumbled on the edge and her torso covered in thin, blue-laced scratches.

And without missing a beat, Liege Maximo sweeps a deep bow. "I defer to your judgment, old friend," he murmurs, unfazed. He looks up and tips his horned helm to each of them. "Another time, maybe."

His smile lingers on Windblade. Starscream only belatedly recognizes the brilliant flickers of teleportation energy. Chromia lunges forward; Starscream's closer but his arm is slagged, his reflexes slow.

Liege Maximo vanishes with a _pop_ of light and sound.

Leaving them empty-handed when Elita bursts into the room. 

With Obsidian's half-dead frame on one hand, and Windblade merged, optics a brilliant violet, on the other.

Starscream honestly doesn't know how this is his life, right now. Somehow, this looks even _more_ incriminating than it actually is.

It's hard to tell what's Elita's usual paint, and what's energon drenching her from head to foot. She leaves a trail of pink behind her. Her optics are ruthless and unyielding, fixed on Windblade as she raises a half-shredded cannon. Chromia plants herself between Elita and Windblade as though her body can block the shots. If Elita fires on the processor itself, it won't matter.

"We need to negotiate -" Starscream starts to say. 

"We do not negotiate. I swore an oath," Elita says, like she's reciting something from memory.

The floor slides out from under her. Elita's optics go wide with surprise as she drops out of sight. 

Arcee flies through the door a split-second later and lands in a roll on the far side of the hole, roaring with outrage as her quarry vanishes.

Unlike Airachnid, however, Elita just keeps falling. If there is a crash, Starscream doesn't hear it. He edges toward the pit, giving Arcee a wide berth, and glances down.

They are _very_ high up.

"... _Please_ tell me you just dumped Elita down the garbage chute," he says, at last.

The reply emanates all around them in a deep, amused drawl. [Even more satisfying than I could have imagined.]

A _clunk_. Starscream turns in time to see the cable detach from Windblade's helm. The blue of her optics looks pale and faded as she takes Chromia's offered hand. "Vigilem?" she asks, looking back at the processor. 

[Enough, Windvoice. I speak for myself.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arcee is quoting [Darth Vader](http://68.media.tumblr.com/bceb0feb3876c0a578aebfda0bc7b306/tumblr_nzzfidB5IX1tcnpluo4_500.png).


	5. Chapter 5

\---

_They lied._

\- Liege Maximo, to Megatronus of the Darklands

\---

It wasn't just Elita. As they descend from Vigilem, it becomes clear that the Titan dumped every single Carcerian bar Obsidian into the bottomless pits of his waste disposal system. 

Starscream would applaud, but he's short an arm. Also, he has no idea whether they can trust Vigilem or not. Windblade might be naive enough to think their little spark-to-spark means that Vigilem is sincere about a truce, but Starscream suspects they've just invited a Titan-sized Trojan behind their firewalls. 

Obsidian is the lone exception to the rule. Windblade and Chromia insist on gathering up the separate halves of him to haul to a medic, since his spark hasn't extinguished yet. Starscream sighs at the soft-sparkedness of some mechs, and moves on with his life. He's far more concerned by the fact that they can't find any trace of Airachnid. 

Actually, he's more than concerned. He's terrified. Airachnid could ruin _everything_. 

By the time they reach ground level, Vigilem has already attracted an audience and started his own damage control. Which just makes him even more dangerous, in Starscream's opinion. 

[People of Cybertron. I am the Titan Vigilem,] Vigilem announces, in a smooth voice pitched to carry over Iacon. He's eloquent where Metroplex is silent; powerfully built where Metroplex is falling apart. When Starscream looks up and squints, he can just barely make out Vigilem's optics far above, shielded by a visor as he addresses the city. [The Carcerians have deceived you. Elita-1 and her ilk did not intend to protect you. They never did.]

The Titan raises a vast hand to press it against his chest. [I renounce Carcer. _I_ will provide refuge for any who must leave the planet as Unicron comes again, until the crisis has passed.]

"Clever mech," Starscream mutters. In one fell swoop, Vigilem just preemptively seized control of the public's perception of what just happened. If Elita-1 attempts to contradict him - if she even leaves Vigilem's garbage chute alive - she'll have to fight an uphill battle against Vigilem's allegations.

"Don't think I haven't noticed that this is exactly what you wanted," Windblade says, quietly. Starscream tips his head to the side to hear her mumbling, but keeps a generic smile fixed on his face for the benefit of the crowd gathering around Vigilem's feet. No need for the people to see anything but their perfectly capable, confident leader. "Elita-1 publicly opposed by a powerful political player."

If she's giving Starscream credit for this, he's not going to turn it down. But still. "I don't trust him as far as I could throw him. I hope you have a plan for shutting him down when he decides 'the crisis has passed,'" Starscream mutters back, through the corner of his smiling mouth. He waves regally at the nearest cluster of mechs, but only a few notice his approach. They're all too busy gawping at Vigilem.

"It's...a work in progress."

Oh. Fantastic. "You've got nothing."

Windblade snorts. "Nothing but raw potential."

"Touché."

The media vultures crowd on the street that loops around the ragged edge of Iacon for the benefit of ground-alts. Windblade squeezes Chromia's hand, and then Chromia disappears with Obsidian - no need for her to parade her illegal presence in front of the whole planet. By the time Starscream locates the Council members among the rabble, he's ready to order everyone to go home, under pain of curfew. He's exhausted and hungry again, and it's the middle of the night. The least they could all do is wait to demand answers until morning.

But no, of course not. "Windblade. Starscream? What the _slag_ did you do?!" Knock Out says, like the answer-demanding heathen that he is. 

"Do we just - uh - ask him questions?" Circuit interrupts, before Starscream can throw Windblade under the bus. His wild-eyed optics dart anxiously up to Vigilem's towering head, and then back to Windblade. "Is that a thing we can do?" 

Windblade resets her optics with a sluggish vent. Then she visibly straightens in a more formal posture, her face set in a mask of grim professionalism. "Vigilem does not require cityspeakers anymore," she says. Starscream takes the opportunity to wave at the Mistress of Flame as she talks. The Camien delegate's face looks like she's sucking on an acid pop. "He is not as damaged as -"

A rumble passes through the ground.

And another.

Starscream whips around toward Vigilem, his wings primed to transform - but all Vigilem has done is tilt his head back, impassive. A battle-mask folds into place over his lower face, the better to conceal the first hints of a vicious grin.

No. Metroplex staggers around Iacon, dwarfing the skyline with his passage. Starscream winces as Metroplex reaches out and crushes the top of a skyscraper to use it as an unfortunate crutch. Even in his advanced state of disrepair, for a Titan it only takes a matter of minutes. 

The difference between him and Vigilem is stark. Vigilem raises his chin higher, proud, as Metroplex grinds to a halt. Metroplex lists visibly to the side, a set of ragged, brittle roots extending from his back. His face is craggy and scuffed from a millennium of fighting; Vigilem looks like a fresh spring daisy in comparison.

And really, if Starscream, Wheeljack, Windblade, _and_ Metroplex are all exhausted, then who exactly is running the damn show?

If they decide to fight now, Starscream is done. Finished. Completely over it. He'll just fly home and hope they don't step on his building while he sleeps. Or maybe hope that they do, and make his life so much simpler. Let someone else worry about the Titanic slap fight, for once.

"- Metroplex," Windblade finishes, her voice quiet. 

Neither Titan moves for a long moment. A heavy pressure sinks into the atmosphere, causing static electricity to spark off Starscream's armor. If the Titans are communicating through some silent means, it isn't something Starscream's comm network can interpret. 

Then Vigilem snorts, and steps backward. He faces out from Iacon and lifts his head to observe the stars. 

Metroplex vents like a windstorm. As the tumultuous breeze from his ventilation rushes through the streets, the Titan kneels with immense effort. The reverberating crack as his knees hit the ground makes Starscream recoil. 

He reaches out with remarkable care, waiting patiently until the crowd scrambles out of the way before turning his hand to face palm up, and then says the only fragging word he apparently still knows. 

[Wind-voice.]

For some mechs, it's the first time they've ever heard Metroplex speak. He's been broken since he returned to Cybertron, basically. Starscream marks the colonists in the crowd by the way they collapse to their knees in awe. 

Windblade steps onto Metroplex's waiting palm. "Excuse me," she says, with only a perfunctory nod for the Council, before Metroplex lifts her up and away.

Leaving Starscream to answer all these oh-so-pressing questions. In the absence of a convenient Windblade-shaped target, Circuit turns on Starscream, optics as round as saucers, and clears his vocalizer. 

It's going to be another long night.

-

"You need to sleep," Bumblebee reminds him, at some indeterminate time the next day. Starscream could check his internal chronometer, but the time feels more like a suggestion than a hard rule. 

Probably a bad sign. 

Tigatron and Airazor pester him all the way to his office with questions about Windblade's wellbeing. As if Starscream has any idea if she's back to normal or not. He's not sure if _anyone_ knows. Most of the other Council delegates creep away when Starscream's ornery mood devolves into short, snappish retorts and burning glares. They have an evacuation to finish overseeing and their own worlds to report back to. 

The Mistress of Flame lingers the longest, yet says nothing. Her mouth is welded into a bitter line of stern disapproval. Of everyone on the Council, the Camien representatives are the only ones really familiar with the history behind Liege Maximo and Vigilem - and Starscream suspects that the Mistress of Flame is on the verge of breaking with the Council over this latest debacle. The replacement cityspeakers cluster around her, chattering in low, frantic undertones, but Starscream's too exhausted to eavesdrop on their no-doubt dull complaints about Windblade usurping them. 

He expects an unpleasant comm from Optimus Prime come morning. Well, that's future Starscream's burden to bear.

Chromia has the sense to wait until the Mistress of Flame clears the room before reporting in, at least. She walks in and folds her arms over her chest, barely at attention. Obsidian's energon stands out, dried in the seams of her hands and her shoulder. 

"Yes, yes. Good first effort, very promising. Try harder next time," Starscream says. He can't even remember if she said anything to him first. The light through the window glints oddly over the thin streaks of dried blue energon along Chromia's torso. His processor reports several error messages when he tells it to knock it off. 

Chromia bows her head in a curt nod. "Of course."

\- 

At some point, Starscream passes out at his desk. He has no memory of resting his head on top of his fresh stack of datapads, nor of shooing out whoever was in here last - Chromia? Ironhide? He wakes with start that feels rather like Megatron kicking him in the chest. One of his datapads sticks to his cheek vent as he whips his head up. His ventilation system wheezes as it reboots, sending him into a coughing fit, and he smacks several buttons on his desk in a blind panic before reaching the one to display the door's camera feed. 

He groans and lets his head thump back against the desk. He punches the speaker button. "No," he tells Wheeljack. His words slur a little - according to both his beleaguered chronometer and the more objective clock readout on the datapad nearest his face, it's been about four hours since he fell into - ah. Emergency stasis. Not recharge, which explains why his processor is still a halting mess. Slag. "Sleeping time, not public speaking time."

"I told you to get to the berth," Bumblebee sighs. He's staring out the window for the moment, his hands locked behind his back as he surveys the city, and Vigilem beyond it. 

Wheeljack's voice comes through the speaker, sheepish and hesitant. "Sorry. New moon problems."

Starscream emits a long, noisy, inventive sigh of despair. He realizes belatedly that he forgot to mute the intercom, which means he just blasted the sound to anyone and everyone outside the door. Ugh. "Like I said. Until it finally transforms into an enormous Titan and threatens to rain death down on us from on high, it's not high on the priority list," he says, rubbing his face. Two separate headaches have distinguished themselves among the general throb in his brain module - a tight pinch centered between his optics, and a deep pulse at the base of his helm. The back of his neck itches, but he suspects that's psychosomatic. 

"Starscream, that was ninety percent a joke, and you know it," Wheeljack says. Starscream can practically hear him rolling his optics through the door.

"And the remaining ten percent haunts my waking nightmares!"

"Anyway, you don't have to worry about that anymore. Luna-2 is gone."

Well. That takes care of a problem that wasn't even actually a problem. The nonsensical relief bubbling up in Starscream's chest is probably also a bad sign. This is somehow the best news he's heard in the past week. "I'm relieved to hear that," he tells Wheeljack, entirely too jovial as he buzzes the Autobot in.

Wheeljack shoots him a weird look as he walks in. "S'far as I can tell, Liege Maximo didn't teleport back there - the energy signature from his teleportation unit went out of range of our scanners a few star systems over. So he's in the wind, and sometime early this morning, the moon just -" he waves a hand vaguely at the ceiling "- ditched us.

Starscream kicks back and leans his chair back with a sharp chuckle. A tiny part of his brain insists that he shouldn't relax with Wheeljack in the room; the rest is too delighted by this strange relief to care. "Pffft. It's not like it was doing anything important." 

Good riddance, as far as he's concerned. The next time Megatron wants to hold court on the moon to take advantage of obscure old laws, he can go out there and drum up a Luna-3 on his own time. 

Bumblebee stifles a laugh with a vocalizer reset.

Wheeljack sits down gingerly on the far side of the desk. He pulls out his datapad and starts flicking projections into the air between them in pink and orange light. "Yeah, but it's still our moon. And since it's gone, that energy pulse calling Unicron? Just got stronger. Before, part of that energy circuit fed into Luna-2. Now, with it gone..."

Starscream lets his head thump against the back of his chair. "Why did we even _have_ those things?"

Wheeljack hums in agreement. His eyes stay fixed on Starscream as he describes the readouts from Luna-2's abrupt departure to parts unknown. Starscream is too burned out to force himself to hate it.

It's unfair. He misses Wheeljack the most when he's sitting right in front of him.

-

Windblade flies down from Metroplex around noon. Starscream initially retreats to the roof of the government building to avoid Rattrap - he doesn't trust himself to outmaneuver Rattrap in a conversation, and can't risk ceding any ground to him politically in a recharge-deprived haze. When he spies the telltale burst of Windblade's flight spiraling down from Metroplex's head, he grunts and adjusts his stance so he won't look like he's about to collapse.

"Ceasefire. Until Unicron is gone," Windblade announces as she dips and lands on the roof. She looks more well-rested today than last night, which is just unfair. Her face is startlingly dark - Starscream re-calibrates and stares at the plain, pale silver of her unpainted face. Only simple red lines underline her optics. "He's worried."

They're all worried. Metroplex can wait in line. Starscream's mouth twitches between a grimace and a sneer. "Let me guess. Metroplex didn't have any pertinent advice for getting rid of Unicron, still."

Windblade strides to the edge of the roof and looks back up the way she came. Her wings angle loose down her back, unguarded. Starscream is too exhausted to pull up his targeting HUD, even out of force of habit. "His memories are...faded. He's older than any Cybertronian still living, you know." She scuffs her foot against the roof. Starscream can't see around her, but she lifts her hand and presses it somewhere in the vicinity of her spark. "It's easier for me to understand his thoughts now. But either he doesn't know how they banished Unicron originally, or for some reason he can't tell me." Another pause, and then: "He kept thinking of Caminus."

"A clue?" Starscream narrows his eyes and lets them drift to the side as he tries to piece it together. Caminus the Titan is, so far as he knows, completely useless - too energy starved to help his own people, the pieces of his body too scattered from centuries of being dismantled to pull himself back together. 

Windblade shakes her head. "I don't see how. Caminus was far younger than Metroplex, and Metroplex's memories of Unicron are some of the oldest he has. He and Caminus used to be amica - Metroplex thinks about him often, on a deep level of his thoughts. It may mean nothing more than it usually does."

In conclusion - useless, all of it. Starscream changes the subject with a toss of his head. "They're all calling you Windvoice. Something I should know?" he asks, with an edge of half-sparked sarcasm. He waves at Metroplex and Vigilem, and encompasses Iacon with an afterthought.

Windblade turns and smiles crookedly at him. Her face looks oddly open without the mask of paint. "I'll keep you posted," she replies, just as sarcastic, and then drops into her alt mode, flipping neatly from the roof. 

\---

__[What is love?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HEXWRTEbj1I)  
Baby don't hurt me  
Don't hurt me  
No more. 

\- William Shakespeare (probably), <<The Visual Album>>

\---

Optimus Prime's comm line pings Starscream late in the afternoon.

The Mistress of Flame needs to step up her game if she wants to keep up. Starscream lets the message descend into the black hole that is his voicemail; if Prime wants to throw his undeserved political weight around, he can do it after Starscream gets some sleep. He bludgeons his schedule with liberal abuse of the cancel button until almost all his meetings for the day fall meekly into line, then storms out of the government building with Vortex and Onslaught at his heels.

He realizes, two streets down, that that's wrong. He keeps careful tabs on the Combaticons' guard rotation; exhaustion is no excuse for him not to notice that _Blast Off_ should be here with Onslaught, today. Onslaught is always disgustingly mushy on Mondays. "Where the frag is Blast Off?" Starscream snaps, with a faint undercurrent of alarm in his circuits. 

"Had to take a day off. He put in a request for time off, but it never got approved," Onslaught rumbles. "Overrode and approved it myself."

It eases Starscream's instinctive unease - but only a little. It makes sense that if Blast Off requested a schedule change, Starscream probably lost it at the bottom of the avalanche of messages constantly piling higher in his inbox. But with Airachnid on the loose, he doesn't want any of the Combaticons straying. Blast Off least of all.

He plays it off with a dismissive flick of his wings and a grunt. But there's something odd in the way Onslaught responded. Starscream replays the exchange in his processor, then turns to stare sharply at Onslaught, inspecting his maskplate with banked suspicion. 

Vortex notices the sudden stare and gulps as he straightens to sloppy attention; his helicopter blades rustle in a barely repressed fidget. 

Onslaught _doesn't_. Onslaught isn't even looking at Starscream. Onslaught, who - even persuaded to believe he's steadfastly loyal to Starscream - is still an opportunistic, brutal strategist. He should have noted Starscream's erratic response to Blast Off's absence. He's barely paying attention to Starscream or their surroundings at all, his downcast visor more concerned with staring at his feet. 

And that's more damning than the rest of the conversation put together. "What's wrong with you people now?" Starscream demands, his tanks churning and roiling with unease.

"Nothing. It's personal," Onslaught says, curtly. Vortex frantically pantomimes a cutting gesture across his throat with a hand, shaking his head at Starscream. 

What? Trouble in paradise? Or something more sinister? Starscream…

…Cannot deal with this right now. He tags a mental note in his processor to worry about it _after_ he recharges properly. "Oh, just go deal with it on your own time," he snaps, irritably. 

Onslaught remains distracted all the way to his quarters, lost in his thoughts.

Arcee perches upside down on the ceiling of Starscream's habsuite when he arrives. How the slag did Prowl put up with this? "No sign of Airachnid or Liege Maximo?" Starscream asks, tiredly, as he slogs his way toward the washracks without pausing.

Arcee shrugs and lands on her feet in a deft twist when she doesn't get the startled response she's angling for. "It's coming along." She follows him into the washracks shamelessly, arranging herself against the far wall as Starscream tries to rinse his face in peace. "Elita and the Vigilant are currently hacking their way out of Vigilem's waste disposal system. Unfortunately for them, the walls keep shifting."

So, she stayed behind to monitor the Carcerians after they left. Good to know, Starscream supposes. Elita-1's imminent wrath will pose a more immediate threat than Liege Maximo. He's not sure which option he likes the least.

"I don't suppose you'd share why you call them that?" he asks, toweling off his face. As much as he'd like to wash properly - he has dirt caked in places dirt should not be - he's not doing it with Arcee in the room. "Or why Vigilem calls you the 'Raging Death of the Darklands.'"

Arcee smiles fondly in the mirror. Starscream nearly seizes up in pure, unadulterated terror on the spot. "I'd forgotten that one."

He flings the towel onto the counter, spark pounding in unhealthy circles like it's ready to pop out of his chest and call it quits. "Really? Do I _really_ have to go consult the Titanic disaster waiting to happen to get a straight answer around here?!"

A derisive snort. "It's not that deep, Starscream." The smile doesn't fade. "Do you know why I came here?"

Easy question. "To ruin my life. Me, personally. Obviously."

Arcee convulses in a short, silent laugh. 

Then she says, "Optimus Prime killed my twin."

Starscream stops dead and contemplates the Arcee in the mirror with abject horror. It's like, he thinks, distantly, Wheeljack just walked in and announced that Luna-2 came back with friends.

"Oh, Primus. There are two of you," he whispers.

"Not anymore. Not ever again," Arcee says.

She walks out without another word.

-

SS: Soundwave.  
SS: Wake up, we don't have all century.  
SS: Have you muted my comms again?  
SS: ANSWER ME, EARTH HIPPIE!!!  
SS: PUT DOWN YOUR """"DOG""" AND PICK UP THE PHONE!  
SW: Elephants are not dogs.  
SS: It has four legs, a tail, and an extended proboscis! They're all dogs, Soundwave!  
SS: I don't care if your dogs are larger and more robust than Thundercracker's! All organics are the same!  
SW: ...  
SW: Starscream, I am busy.  
SW: Did you require my assistance with something?  
SS: Arcee won't stop lurking around my office. Menacingly! What the molten slag did Prime do?!  
SW: Interesting. That is where she went.  
SW: I could hear her screaming.  
SS: You have such a way with words, you know that.  
SS: I can't believe Shockwave died just so you could steal his tag at last and use it to say things like that. He's probably rolling over in his time-space grave right now -  
SW: When Optimus terminated Galvatron.  
SW: All I could hear was her rage.   
SS: Oh.  
SS: Well.  
SS: Slag.  
SS: Wait. How old are these people?!  
SW: Starscream. What exactly is going on over there.  
SW: I can sense -  
SS: NOTHING. EVERYTHING'S FINE. GOODBYE!  



	6. Chapter 6

_\---_

_The tongue may hide the truth but the eyes - never!_

\- Mikhail Bulgakov, <<[The Master and Margarita](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/117833.The_Master_and_Margarita)>>

\---

The problem with Vigilem speaking for himself, Starscream thinks, six days before Unicron's due, is that no one knows what to do with him. The Council's in limbo - Elita's still missing in the bowels of the Titan, and none of the remaining delegates can come to a consensus on how to approach Vigilem. The circumstances surrounding Liege Maximo and Vigilem still aren't known to the general public, but everyone in the council chambers knows just how dangerous Vigilem can be. It's not like they can just give him Elita's seat and call it a day.

For one thing, Vigilem would never be able to fit through the door. 

The evacuation efforts are almost complete, yet somehow the amount of forms Starscream needs to sign continues to rise. Only a few thousand mechs are left on the planet that Starscream's government is aware of. They broadcast an alert across Cybertron for the benefit of any neutrals or partisan hermits holed up in the vast areas of uninhabited wasteland beyond Iacon. Mechs need him to confirm the inspection reports for their space-worthy ships are in order, to double-check that all the refugees sent to Devisiun and Eukaris actually made it to the right planet, to ensure supplies and resources are successfully delivered, to make the final call on when and how they'll evacuate the combiner units in the event that Unicron can't be stopped.

He forwards Requiem's archives to Windblade to deal with in a fit of desperation. He got through approximately three stanzas of the first ballad one night before nearly dying of boredom. If there's anything of use buried in the Old Cybertronian frippery, Windblade can either find it herself or start reading it aloud to Metroplex. Starscream doesn't have the time or patience to care. 

Delegating is so much harder without Rattrap. Rattrap and his tendrils of influence haven't sabotaged the evacuation efforts - yet - but Starscream can't avoid Rattrap forever.

Literally. He spends half his time in between meetings dodging through the hallways, demanding Bumblebee spy around corners to let Starscream know whether Rattrap is lurking there to ambush him. Bumblebee mutters about not wanting to enable Starscream's severe paranoia, but does it anyway. Starscream takes the aerial exits as often as he can. 

The only highlight of his days are the flagged pings from Swindle that trickle in over the course of the day. Parts for his new frame model arrive in staggered shipments and slowly accumulate in Starscream's quarters. His hastily repaired arm aches at night - but with the new frame within his grasp, he doesn't bother harassing a medic to tune it up. Before Unicron arrives, he needs to scrounge up a surgeon. Easier said than done. Most of Starscream's old contacts are either already off-planet or too intelligent to come anywhere near Cybertron in the middle of a crisis. 

He can think of one person who meets his exacting standards.

But no.

-

Every day that passes without word of Airachnid being sighted, on Cybertron or on Eukaris, makes Starscream's spark sink a little deeper. Before, he kept Airachnid's presence on Cybertron secret. Now that he knows she's somehow conspiring with Liege Maximo... 

Blackarachnia promises to report any sign of the rogue Fate Spinner at once - the fact that Airachnid survived her banishment from the Eukarian tribes sends ripples of unease throughout the colony, and they begin to patrol their side of the space bridge more thoroughly than Starscream's ragged network can. Starscream tells them nothing more than they need to know. 

Apprehension prickles along the back of his neck, like the heat of a fusion cannon pressed against the back of his helm.

-

Blast Off returns promptly the day after his break. His visor fritzes unevenly throughout the day, as though it recently flared up with emotion to the point of glitching. 

He and Onslaught stand ten meters apart at all times. They do not speak to each other. 

-

The story breaks when Starscream goes to obtain a cube of energon at midday. The media's been obsessed with Vigilem for days now, and Starscream was content to leave them to their speculation. The datapads streaming the local news outlets on his desk get overlooked more often as the evacuation (and his workload) ramp up; he pays less and less attention as the newsmechs with less of a spine abandon Cybertron and leave their newstreams dark as they broadcast elsewhere. 

He glimpses the bulletin headline scrolling under Circuit's horribly familiar name by sheer accident, and almost spits energon all over the datapad screen.

" _\- new revelations concerning Cybertron's leader and delegate to the Council of Worlds -_ "

A numb, pounding sensation sinks into his processor as he shoves aside a fallen stack of datapads to reach the newstream. His fingers knock the datapad clumsily onto the floor, and he's forced to dangle over the edge of the desk to reach it again. 

And he knows. He knows before he even sees the rest of it. The text report at the bottom of the newstream skims past his unseeing optics twice before Starscream can stop screaming on the inside long enough to read it.

"No," he says, through frozen lips, as he stares down at Circuit's face. 

"- _video of him arguing out loud in a room, reviving rumors that Lord Starscream may be suffering a mental breakdown -_ "

Bumblebee kneels beside him. Insubstantial, untouchable. "Starscream -"

The recording on the screen replays a few times, for emphasis. It's Starscream, alone, always alone, talking to -

Starscream rips around and flings the datapad through Bumblebee's intangible torso with a wild shriek. A scream congeals in his chest, rattling through him over and over, until his voice is nothing but static. "Shut up. Shut up!"

Bumblebee looks away. His image doesn't even flicker as the datapad soars through him and smashes against the wall.

"- _in your opinion, is Lord Starscream fit to lead Cybertron? Is this evacuation even necessary?"_ Circuit asks, on the cracked screen. 

Ironhide answers, firm and gruff. His expression betrays nothing as he completely avoids the first question. " _The threat to Cybertron is very real. Long range scanners have confirmed -_ "

His ventilations shudder through him, shaking him like he accidentally flew behind Astrotrain's engines midflight. Circuit's babbled speculation turns into white noise in his audial sensors. 

He closes a hand into a fist against the floor. "Who," he growls. Too many potential suspects - he's been sloppy. Spoken to Bumblebee unthinkingly, in front of witnesses, as he adjusted to the presence of the hallucination. He forgot to be careful. He forgot to _pay attention_. 

But the list of people who could have gained access to his office, without Starscream there to supervise their every move, is very short. Arcee couldn't care less; Rattrap has surely known for ages and said nothing; Airachnid -

Wheeljack. 

He left _Wheeljack_ alone in here.

His vocalizer must say the name without Starscream consciously meaning to; Bumblebee jerks like he's been shot all over again. "No. Stop it. Wheeljack doesn't do things like this. You _know_ that's not who he is," he insists, sharply. 

He's trying to sound like a voice of reason. Like the conscience Starscream's never had. The little Autobot on his shoulder he's never wanted.

He just sounds desperate.

"And you think the timing is a coincidence?!" Starscream hisses. He pulls himself up roughly with a hand on the desk, his processor racing as he glares around the room. He scans for the telltale glint of hidden cameras - it's around here somewhere - 

"I think that you've talked to me out loud. Maybe even more than you know," Bumblebee says, ruthlessly. He keeps pushing in front of Starscream, forcing Starscream to look at him - but he can't impede Starscream's frantic search with his ghostly frame. Starscream tears panels out of the walls, exposing his own secret compartments and tossing the contents as he scours the room. He pockets hidden guns in his subspace compartments and leaves hoarded energon cubes scattered across the floor, crushing them under his feet with careless steps. "We should have been more careful."

Still no camera. Starscream snarls and storms through Bumblebee to reach the desk and flip it. The datapads clatter on the floor in a shower; the desk itself smacks against the wall before hitting the ground with a metallic squeal. A solid 4 on the Prowl scale - as Wheeljack would say.

_Wheeljack, Wheeljack, Wheeljack._

Bumblebee steps into Starscream's path again.

His spark feels like it's about to boil in his chest. Why should it hurt so much, the second time around? Did he _really_ think anyone would stick around? "I need to do damage control. Go _away,_ " Starscream says, stalking through Bumblebee and out the door. He activates all the extra security locks behind him, so no idiots can stumble into his office and see the wreckage he's left behind.

Bumblebee strides alongside him as Starscream stalks through the halls. He really can't take a hint, can he?! "I don't think I should leave you alone right now."

Starscream clamps his jaw shut and controls the ripple of fury that threatens to seize his face. All he wants is to fly out to the Rust Spot and find Wheeljack and - something.

He can't. Council meeting. If he doesn't show up, the idiots will argue themselves in circles for an hour - or worse, they'll decide to actually do something without Starscream there to control their impulsive tendencies.

He wants to scream again. 

The Combaticons catch up with him after the fact - Starscream's abrupt departure from his office apparently threw them off. He's surrounded by useless slag. "Where have youlot been?" he snaps at Onslaught and Brawl. When Brawl clicks his vocalizer to reply, Starscream throws up a hand to cut him off. "Ugh. Never mind."

Most of the Council members beat Starscream to the council room. News of Circuit's exclusive exposé spreads like a virus. Vanquish and Fireshot huddle outside the entrance with Airazor and Tigatron; when they notice Starscream's approach their faces form a montage of expressions ranging from guilt-ridden to speculative. 

Yet none of them look _surprised_. 

(Did they know? Did they all know?)

Starscream grits his teeth and blows past the slow mech who lingers in the doorway when he needs to pass them. He can worry about the effect of the news report on the rest of the world later; right now, he needs to reassert his grip over the Council, fast, before things can deteriorate further. 

"Hey Blast Off," he hears Brawl say, from a long way away. 

"Hngk," Blast Off replies.

And Starscream stops. The bubble of numbness in his processor makes it feel like he's thinking through oil. Fury and a lurching panic carried him this far.

But it's the old sinking feeling that freezes him in the doorway. The Devisens run into the back of his legs, but Starscream is too preoccupied with staring at the room before him.

His armor clamps down, to match the tension winding up in his protoform. He feels as brittle as if someone doused him with glass gas. Something, he thinks, his optics sweeping over the Mistress of Flame at her seat, Knock Out and Moonracer arguing heatedly in the center of the council chamber, is very, very wrong -

"What?" Brawl says, frowning at Blast Off. Blast Off takes another slow, sluggish step; the sound echoes weirdly in Starscream's audials.

Starscream turns around and stares at the back of Blast Off's helm. He doesn't have a UV light built behind his optics; only a few Decepticons were _that_ paranoid. "Oh. You _idiot_. You actually went and found her."

He can't wait for the scans to finish. "Clear the room!" he orders, raising his voice as he turns back toward the room. The Devisen duo slipped past him while he was distracted. The Mistress of Flame stiffens and frowns at him sternly. 

None of them _move_. "Out!" Starscream screeches. His instincts scream at him to _get out_ , it's not safe -

Behind him, Blast Off sinks to one knee. Onslaught and Brawl lean over him, distracted.

The Mistress of Flame rises at her seat, but only shakes her head at Starscream in disapproval. As if this is a _joke_. "Lord Starscream. We wish to discuss -" she starts to say.

Starscream's scans finish with a shriek that reverberates in his ears. A device he recognizes. At least Blast Off didn't try anything subtle. 

"Bomb!" Starscream shrieks back at her, at his top volume, and then kicks the Eukarians back into the hall so he can fling himself out of the doorway.

The council room explodes five seconds later. Nothing fancy, nothing nuclear - nothing of the caliber war scientists like Brainstorm or Killmaster could bring to the table. The rolling _CRACK_ blows out his audial sensors and shatters every window in the vicinity; the shockwave itself reverberates through Starscream's frame. Shrapnel and dust erupt through the open doorway and spray the wall opposite. 

Starscream rolls back onto his feet a beat after the explosion ends. His vestibular system forcibly resets itself as battle protocols brute-force their way through the shock in his brain module. He assesses the fallout: the Devisens snapped together in their single alt mode, flipped over on their side and peppered with shrapnel; the Eukarians spring forward, in better shape. Airazor checks on the Devisens, while Tigatron skids to a halt beside Starscream. Part of the wall wrenched apart in the blast - through the new gap, Starscream can detect movement. The explosion reduced the main table and chairs to slag, scorched the gold-plated walls, and left a Breakdown-sized hole in the far wall, revealing open air outside the building.

Scratch that. Breakdown apparently heeded Starscream's shout, and escorted Knock Out and Moonracer from the room the hard way. There's no sign of any of the Velocitronians in the wreckage. 

A quiet groan. The Mistress of Flame stirs behind the wreckage of the table, between it and the door. A few of her attendants lay very still.

And then a click, right behind Starscream's head. 

"No!" Tigatron yells, tackling Blast Off's blaster jaws first. The first blast wings right past Starscream, scorching his audial sensor and leaving him half-deaf again. His other sensors shunt the fried neurocircuits off to compensate for it. Blast Off's emitting a horrible, broken sob, over and over again, the same sound glitched to play on repeat as Airachnid's trigger forces him to fire. Tigatron shakes his head with tearing force, severing Blast Off's hand at the wrist. 

Brawl and Onslaught converge on them, Starscream sweeps up the gun without bothering to force Blast Off's fingers off the hilt, and raises his own weapon -

Three more shots fire, in rapid succession. 

Brawl, Onslaught, and Blast Off all drop, headless and spitting sparks.

Elita's cannon can carve through Titan processors. Starscream really needs to keep that in mind. For future reference. He can't afford to stare at the three abruptly headless Combaticons as long as he does. 

Elita lowers the cannon with clear reluctance and strides down the hall, Strika at her left, Obsidian limping at her right, and what appears to be most of Carcer's post-Arcee population filling the hall in her wake. Her own personal army: all of them reeking with the sharp tang of galvanized scrap and welding fumes, all of them radiating bitter, self-righteous fury. "That's enough," she says, coldly.

_Stop staring at them just because it's what happened to Wheeljack._

Starscream tears his gaze away from the Combaticons and rises to his feet. "Excellent timing, Elita," he says, smooth as engex. 

Elita snaps her fingers and points at him accusingly. "Not a word," she hisses. "Not a _word_."

Ah. This is just going to be one of _those_ days, isn't it. Starscream sketches a short, mocking bow, using the opportunity to scan behind him again with auxiliary sensors. The Mistress of Flame is up, stepping over her attendants to sweep toward them through the wreckage. No sign of the Velocitronians. The Devisens have split apart, and Airazor leaves them to rush to Tigatron's side.

Starscream trusts exactly none of them to back him if Elita makes this her final play. The Eukarians might, if only because they hold a grudge over Elita's assault on Windblade, but he can't rely on them. He's alone. 

Elita launches into her speech. It's as eloquent as any of the excuses she made to the media to cover up her ship's unpleasant secrets. "Let me make one thing very clear to you, Starscream. As of two days ago, all of Carcer knows of your treachery. From the very beginning you have done nothing but attempt to usurp the authority of my ship. And now not just the Deceiver but also his Titan are loose upon the world - both at _your_ instigation."

"Riveting," Starscream drawls when she pauses for dramatic effect. It accomplishes nothing except to draw Elita's ire, but it's worth it to see her face twitch with barely-repressed anger.

"We withdraw our support for the Council of Worlds," Elita finishes. She casts a contemptuous stare around the scorched hall, her lip curling as she stares down each conscious Council member in turn. "You have all been complicit in undermining Carcer's sovereignty. We reject your authority."

"Did you miss the part where we were there to try to _help_ capture Liege Maximo?" Starscream points out, irritated. Really. He doesn't expect to change Elita's mind about any of this, but just once, he'd like someone to give him _some_ credit. An attempt was made. 

"And yet, time after time, your interference has produced disastrous consequences. I no longer accept that you meddle out of ignorance. Your schemes, your manipulations, your deceptions..." Elita trails off. All the fury drains out of her scowl, and a dead, cold stare replaces it. Judging him. Starscream shifts, drumming his fingers against his armor as he folds his arms. "I do not think you're old enough to be one of the Liege's old disciples. But I am not ruling it out. It is clear that from the very start, you have done nothing but deceive us for your own purposes." She addresses the Council at large by raising her voice; her dangerous, assessing stare never leaves Starscream. Her targeting HUD never wavers. "And if any of you retain a scrap of a conscience, you would see how you've been lied to."

Starscream sighs internally. She's obviously had time to rehearse it while slogging her way through Vigilem's waste. Perhaps she even persuaded herself to believe it. Certainly the Carcerians themselves buy into her narrative: hundreds of judgmental optics, bar Obsidian's, glare at Starscream with unrelenting condemnation.

But really, now. He grins back at her, tight and vicious. "If you're going to say it, say it properly," he says, scornfully. He gestures to himself with a flourish of both hands. " _'You are being deceived.'_ " 

None of them can understand. Not really. But the old mantra recenters him in a way it hasn't in - centuries. Thousands of years, really. He snaps his fingers back at Elita, and points back the way she came in. "If all you have are baseless accusations and no _proof_ , then get out."

Then he kneels beside Blast Off's body and feels for a diagnostic port in what's left of the Combaticon's neck. The processor's gone, along with most of the primary and auxiliary sensors - but really, when has _that_ ever properly killed anyone?

"You have nothing to say? Have you run out of excuses?" Elita demands, harshly. Starscream's very aware that his back is exposed to her, along with however many surviving Carcerians with no reason not to shoot him on sight.

A gamble. A wild one. He notes the continued presence of Blast Off's frantically whirling spark, and switches to Onslaught. He makes a painstaking show of gently easing the Combaticons into more comfortable positions as he ignores Elita. 

Then, when the security guards finally reach them (he's firing all of them when this is over), he waves them over imperiously and stands, his knees glistening with energon from severed fuel lines. "Take them to the medical sector on my ship," he orders, touching Brawl's forehead gently with a brush of his fingers. 

Very magnanimous. He swiped it straight from the humans. 

Bumblebee falls back against the wall, clutching his chest in disbelief. Starscream would roll his optics just to dissuade Bumblebee of any notions of Starscream growing an Autobot-standard morality tumor, but they're in polite company.

"Wait. Where are you taking them?" Fireshot asks. The Devisiun sounds confused; he's leaning heavily on his twin's shoulder just to stand on ruined feet, and shakes his helm to clear it. When Starscream doesn't immediately respond, Vanquish stamps his foot for both of them. "Enough secrets, Starscream!"

"To the CR chambers relocated to my ship in preparation for the evacuation," Starscream replies, sculpting his expression into one of benevolent sadness. Yes, good. Benevolence. Altruism. Think soft, cringy Autobot thoughts. Definitely not regretting the loss of his extra backup CR chambers.

The Mistress of Flame's voice rings out. "You're going to try to save them? After they attempted to assassinate the Council?" She uses her ceremonial hammer as a support to clamber over the remains of the chamber wall, her optics like chips of steel.

Now, to sell it. Starscream takes a tab from Windblade's datapad and presses his hand to his chest, casting his face down in very, very real concern. "I have reason to believe that one of Liege Maximo's _real_ accomplices is a mnemosurgeon named Airachnid. One has been loose on Cybertron for some time - there were a number of unexplained attacks on local Decepticons, as Ironhide can attest to, and the culprit was never taken into custody," he says, weaving between the truth with quicksilver precision. _Sell it._ "A mnemosurgeon would be more than capable of turning some of my most loyal guards against us. With their processors destroyed, there is no way to tell for sure." As the guards hoist Onslaught up to haul him away, Starscream rests another merciful hand on Onslaught's shoulder. WWPD - what would Prime do? "It will take time for them to recover. We deal with Unicron, and then we can find out what _really_ happened here."

He closes his free hand in a fist, for good measure. It's not hard to tremble with emotion; he's riding a tempest that could buck him off at any moment.

They buy it. The Devisens even look sheepish about their completely logical outburst.

 _Frag_ , is he good.

"And what of Carcer's representatives?" the Mistress of Flame asks. 

" _Vigilem_ represents himself, now. Haven't you heard?" Starscream replies. He glances over his shoulder at Elita, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. "Now get off my planet, before I offer him your seat."

Elita's trembling for a very different reason. "We won't forget this. You've made an enemy of Carcer today."

Starscream inspects his fingers. "Who?"


	7. Chapter 7

_\---_

_I have a lot of work to do today;_

_[I need to slaughter memory.](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/5322783-i-have-a-lot-of-work-to-do-today-i) _

\- Akhmatova of Tempo, <<Untitled>>

\---

"I'm very proud of you," Bumblebee says, after Starscream finally emerges from the meeting. Aft.

According to the latest update, Onslaught, Blast Off, and Brawl's frames have successfully been transported to Starscream's personal ship. And Rattrap's not around to forward the news of their decapitation to Vortex and Swindle, which leaves Starscream to take care of that unpleasantness. With any luck, the two remaining Combaticons won't detonate like Blast Off did; if Airachnid primed either of them to try to assassinate Starscream on sight, this will get ugly.

As if it wasn't already ugly enough. He just couldn't let it go, could he? Had to import a mnemosurgeon and let her run wild. This is what happens when Starscream gets what he wants: regrets. Chaos. How long until they all start eating each other alive?

He needs to plan for what to do if and when the three Combaticons wake up. The odds that they'll emerge from the CR chambers with spark memories rather than _processor_ memories are too damn high. Shooting shadowplay victims in the head and waiting for the spark to load its deep memory was a quick and dirty Decepticon shortcut to circumvent mnemosurgery, back when the Institute was an open secret among certain circles. If Onslaught and Brawl come out with their memories fully intact, free of Airachnid's influence...

Ugh. Easier to let them die. All Starscream's done is create more of a hassle for himself in the future. "Not now, Bumblebee," he mutters under his breath, digging his knuckles into his temple to massage a fresh headache.

"Huh. Interesting," Arcee says, as Starscream sails right past her. As if he needs _her_ judging him, right now.

"You must have misheard me. 'Sorry. Not now, Arcee,'" Starscream says, glaring at her. Mostly because he can't glare at himself for the slip, and Bumblebee's on his other side. How hard can it be to ignore one pathetic hallucination?

"Talking to ghosts?" Arcee smirks and stretches her arms languidly over her head as she prowls after him. Anyone else's joints would crack and make sound as they moved like that - Arcee runs frightening silent. Who on Cybertron thought it would be a good idea to give her SpecOps mods? 

Prowl. Probably Prowl. 

A few guards coming down the hall - presumably to consult Starscream about the bomb clean up - take one look at Arcee, turn pale, and veer wildly down another corridor. And the Velocitronians wanted to know how Blast Off snuck a bomb in. Please. Look at what Starscream has to work with, here. "Depends. Do you talk to Galvatron?" he retorts.

Arcee lifts him with one hand, as though he's weightless, and shoves him up against the wall. He freezes at the burning line of a hot energy blade pressed to his throat. "And there's the line," she says, conversationally.

Starscream tilts his chin up and smiles. His processor feels piercingly clear. "If you're going to kill me, just get it over with."

She drops him.

"I didn't particularly care about him. Didn't even think about him, for the longest time," she says, flipping the energy blade in the air as she steps away before sheathing it. 

Starscream buries a groan in the palm of his hand. "Oh, spare me."

"You brought it up," Arcee points out, acidly. While Starscream peels himself away from the wall, Arcee stares down at her wrist. He pointedly avoids looking at her face as he walks away. 

"For so long, we agreed. We fought together, we chose together. We were inseparable - until we weren't."

This time, he doesn't stifle the groan. Is there something in his EM field that invites Autobots to spill all their squishy, sentimental secrets? And where was this magical ability when they were at war for millions of years? Because if it's potent enough to affect _Arcee_ , clearly Starscream missed his calling as an interrogator. "Tragic," he mutters under his breath.

Arcee shrugs. He catches a glimpse of her sharp, taunting grin in the corner of his eyes, and realizes that his obvious irritation is only egging her on. "I didn't realize that where he went, I always followed. That it wasn't really a choice. The first time I wanted something different, we shattered. I chose to go, and he didn't follow," she says, her pensive tone at odds with her bitter smile.

Starscream doesn't _care_. There are no words for how uncomfortable he is with this entire situation. Listening to Arcee ruminate on her relationship with Galvatron may be worse than all of Bumblebee's nagging combined. "Why are you telling me this?" he asks, voice strained.

"My twin is dead," she says, simply. Soberly. "I thought I knew who I was, without him."

He snorts. "You're a pain in my aft. An _ancient_ pain in my aft, no less." Then a far more relevant thought occurs to him. "Do you even care what I think about all this?!"

This seems to cheer her. Eurgh. "No. I don't care what anyone thinks," Arcee says. "I could have killed everyone in that council chamber, and would never give it a second thought." She tips her head to the side, her eyes narrowed in contentment. "I wonder what she would think of me now."

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter now." 

Arcee falls silent for a long moment. Long enough that Starscream refuses to glance in her direction, in the dim hope that maybe she's slipped away back down whatever vent she came out of. He's giving serious thought to the pros and cons of trying to contact Prowl and drag him back from his 'sabbatical' to deal with... _this_. 

Then Arcee chuckles darkly, and flicks something at him sideways like an Earth Frisbee. A _death_ Frisbee.

"You have a rat," she tells him, as Starscream reflexively catches the datapad. 

He turns it over in his hands warily, almost afraid to tap the screen. It looks like an ordinary datapad. "What is this?" 

She rests her hip against the edge of an open window, arms folded. When he glances up at her, irritated, her expression is unreadable. "The recording of you, talking to Bumblebee. The same one leaked to the media this morning," she says. Her optics flare against the backdrop of the city - dark, the buildings and roads silent in the wake of the evacuation, in the shadow cast by Vigilem's massive form. They no longer have Luna-2 to reflect light from the sun. "You should watch it."

Starscream spent most of the Council meeting not acknowledging that little incident. Out loud, and mentally. He grits his teeth at the reminder. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in doing me a favor?" he drawls, waving the datapad at her with a sour frown.

"Watch the tape," Arcee says. Then she lets herself drop backwards, legs arcing out as she kicks off the edge of the window. "I don't work for you."

\---

_I usually solve problems by letting them devour me._

\- Kafka, <<[error]>>

\---

It's somehow worse, seeing it from the outside.

Bumblebee stands beside Starscream's shoulder in quiet solidarity while they watch. As if he's not the _problem_.

The recorded Starscream stands in his office. It just so happens that he's alone, and there's no indication that he's on a comm line or speaking to someone off-screen. The camera feed judders a little as it adjusts itself and zooms out, to prove it. 

" _Don't give me that look,_ " he says. His voice barely rises above a mumble. Then he raises his head from his paperwork and frowns at the window. " _Oh, spare me the sentimentality. I can assure you that my cynicism is supported by historical precedent._ " 

Starscream clenches his fists. He can feel a neurocircuit twitch in his cheek. 

Watching this - _frag._ It's worse than he'd thought. Something slick and organic squirms nauseatingly in his fuel tanks.

" _No._ " Then, with a vicious scowl, aimed at nothing - " _No, I will not. He's been undermining me from the beginning, obviously, and -_ " 

The recorded Starscream drops his datapad on the desk with a loud clatter and whips around, his face livid even through the static. The Bumblebee beside Starscream twitches at the sound. As though they didn't already _have_ this exact conversation. He should remember it as well as Starscream does. 

" _I don't intend to repeat that mistake,_ " Starscream says, coldly, as he shoves away from the desk and begins to pace. The recording crackles with static a few more times as the camera bobs; then the whole thing cuts off.

"An excellent reminder," Starscream says. He feels cold, shot through with ice all the way to the core. Wheeljack. They'd been talking about Wheeljack - or Bumblebee had been, anyway. The conversation took place barely two weeks ago. 

And all the while, someone recorded him talking to himself like a glitched mech.

Which. Well. No one needed to know about that. 

Starscream tears away from the desk to pace. He curses internally when he realizes that's just what the recorded Starscream did. Bumblebee watches him, concern etched in his round face as he leans on the edge of Starscream's desk. 

"He's sorry, you know," Bumblebee says, quietly.

Starscream pivots on his heel. "You want to recreate the conversation?" he mutters, replaying the video in his mind and scanning the room. The angle -

Bumblebee forges on, relentless. "He did what he thought was right, with Swindle. And in the end, the Combaticons festered. He couldn't have known you would bring in Airachnid. That neither you nor Onslaught would stop looking -"

The angle is all wrong. His room was never bugged. Which means it’s perfectly fine when Starscream throws his arms wide, optics burning like they're on the verge of short-circuiting. "You think I don't know that?! _You think I don't know it's my own fault?!_ " he demands. His voice sounds - absolutely wretched. It's not his voice. Megatron used to say they could hear his scream clear across the Benzene Cluster - this is pathetic in comparison. " _I_ shot Swindle! _I_ manipulated the Combaticons! _I_ invited in Airachnid to tear up people's processors! This is what I am! _I will never be a better person!_ "

It's really not fair to Wheeljack. He should never have had to put up with this in the first place. At least Bumblebee's dead, and has nothing better to do; Wheeljack still had a life to live outside of Starscream. 

And he already is the better person. 

You could crack Starscream open, and find nothing but rot.

"Do you regret it?" Bumblebee says, deafeningly quiet.

" _Of course I do!_ " 

Starscream's vocalizer cracks, physically and audibly. He can feel something loose and heavy cycling over and over again in his throat as it struggles to realign itself. Good thing he's installing a new one in a few days. 

"Just leave me alone," he says. The subglyphs wobble in and out as his vocalizer tries and fails to pronounce them. It's going to play hell with his enunciation if he makes a speech to the masses any time soon. He turns away from Bumblebee's judging stare, his shoulders slumped and his wings slack as he miserably inspects the corner of the room where the recording was shot from. 

Right through the open door. And Starscream hadn't even noticed. No wonder he never found any cameras in the walls. 

"You're not alone." Bumblebee just keeps _talking_. His words throb in Starscream's ears like a living headache. "You told me once that every time you tried something different, you were punished. For relying on someone else. For thinking you weren't alone. And now, every step of the way, you've pushed them away, because you understand suspicion better than you understand trust. You've sabotaged yourself, repeatedly."

"Are you going to monologue me to death? Just shoot me instead. Show me some of that quintessential Autobot mercy," Starscream grumbles. Wheeljack is too tall in root mode, too bulky in alt mode. The angle is wrong, wrong, wrong. 

"Being alone is scary. It's a frightening way to live." Bumblebee steps forward and stops beside Starscream. He doesn't pretend to rest a hand on Starscream's shoulder. He just looks up at him no matter how much Starscream turns his head aside, his expression full of something Starscream doesn't recognize. "Do you know how many more options you would have had, if you had Windblade as an ally all this time? Or if you asked them for their perspective before lashing out at Caminus? You wouldn't have needed to rely on Airachnid. You could have made different choices." 

Of course. Typical Autobot. Rub his moral failings in his face, when he's at his lowest. Starscream curls his lip and scowls back at Arcee's datapad one more time. 

At least Arcee's useful. When she isn't terrifying beyond all words. "Too late now. Regrets are pointless. I just have to live with what's left," Starscream says, shouldering through Bumblebee's incorporeal form to stride out the door. 

"It's not too late. You still can. And try to do better. That's all any of us can do." Bumblebee follows Starscream as he picks up speed. The hallucination clips through the wall on his right in his haste to keep up. "Wheeljack didn't leak that tape and you know it," he says, raising his voice in alarm.

 _Obviously_. "I hate it when you're right," Starscream mutters to himself - to the lonely section of his brain module that insists on roleplaying dead Autobots in its spare time - and leaps off the aerial balcony to fly into the night. 

-

Obviously it's not Wheeljack. Past Starscream was an idiot to think that. 

Rattrap is a problem he's ignored for too long. 

Time to remedy that. 

When Starscream finally cracks open one of Rattrap's long-ignored messages, all it includes is a set of coordinates. If his spark feels like it's full of bubbling engex, flying to Vigilem rather than to the Rust Spot, he doesn't acknowledge it. 

Rattrap probably chose the location before Vigilem showed up. Or perhaps he decided to take advantage of the new real estate when organizing this mockery of a showdown. Vigilem says nothing as Starscream coasts around his knee and lands on the edge of a platform outside an entry hatch, but Starscream has no doubt the Titan is aware of the intrusion. 

Would Rattrap know that Vigilem knows, though? Starscream only knows because he spends far too much of his time around cityspeakers. Metroplex isn't a sterling example of what Titans are capable of at the best of times, and Rattrap would only have observed them from the outside.

The air warms rapidly in proximity to Vigilem. Starscream stops leaving a plume of visible steam behind him as soon as he sets foot on the platform. Like most of the city, the buildings closest to Vigilem's legs are dark and silent. If Rattrap arranged for prying eyes to spy on them from a distance, they've tucked themselves away somewhere in the evacuated city. 

"Rattrap. This is the best play you could come up with? After all this build up?" Starscream asks the empty air. He rolls his wrist absently, feigning boredom as his sensors cross-examine the platform. He pauses, then adds, "I'm disappointed in you."

Rattrap creeps out of the shadows under the overhanging edge of Vigilem's armor. He transforms from his alt mode with fluid ease and stops well out of arm's reach. While Starscream ground himself down to bare metal and peeling paint trying to run the planet single-handedly, Rattrap took care to polish himself and visit a medic for a tune-up. His brown armor gleams with health. He looks collected and confident, and smiles a crooked smile at Starscream with dispassionate eyes. 

"Pfft. Hate to say it boss, but you did half the work for me," he says, with a dismissive shrug. "I figured we may as well get this over with, before you lose the rest of your marbles." His grin widens, derisive. Like Starscream is nothing more than a putrid organic worm for him to step on as he moves on to bigger and better things. "Don't get me wrong. As nice as it is having copious amounts of blackmail material on you, it'll be nicer once they replace you with someone who really appreciates a personal assistant like me."

Starscream laughs like a whip crack. "Really? So unambitious?" 

It's legitimately _laughable_. All of Rattrap's bided time, all his seedy dealings, all his talent - and he just wants to stay where he is. He's trying to oust Starscream from power without even the common decency to claim power for himself.

Apparently, Starscream taught him nothing.

With another shrug, Rattrap scratches the back of his head. Starscream takes a leisurely step around in a circle, and Rattrap unconsciously mimics him. They match each other sneer for sneer. "What can I say? I'd rather be the power behind the throne when the throne isn't blundering around trying to glitch himself up a conscience. It's just one clusterfrag after another with you in charge," Rattrap says, as Starscream slowly stalks around. "I ain't telling them anything that isn't true."

Starscream has some idea of the layout, now. The question is...well. Starscream takes one more step into the shadows of Vigilem, then levels his arm-mounted gun at Rattrap. "Stop boring me and give me one reason not to shoot you and solve all my problems," Starscream says, letting the sneer fall and zeroing on Rattrap coolly through the targeting HUD. As if he needs it, at such close range. 

He twitches when Bumblebee's voice bursts out behind him. "Not _again_!" 

With a snort, Rattrap obliges. "The rest of the recordings drop in the inboxes of every media outlet left on the planet tomorrow, if I'm not alive to stop them. A nice montage of all your dealings with the Combaticons and the Stunticons, that nasty business with Metalhawk...the works. With a special note in each telling Ironhide to look for more evidence on my body." While Starscream stares at him flatly, unimpressed, Rattrap shakes his head. "Or you could just make this easy on everyone, and -"

"I can do you one better." Starscream tilts his head back. "Vigilem, would you kindly shut the door?" he asks, in his most charming voice.

Vigilem's overhanging armor slams down around the platform and seals them inside the Titan.

Starscream fires while Rattrap is still flinching in shock at the impact. The shots cripple the mech's left leg and shatter the right hip joint. 

Immediately, Rattrap starts crawling frantically, dragging himself away from Starscream with his arms; a faint _squeal_ fills the air as his transformation cog tries and fails to fold his legs up into something resembling his alt mode. Starscream takes his sweet time waltzing over and smiles at Rattrap with scathing amusement as he starts to babble. Where's all that slick confidence, now? "Boss, boss, hey, listen - listen to me, okay -" 

Really. What a disappointment. This is the mech Starscream let drive him into this corner? A washed up, opportunistic ex-Autobot who couldn't conceive of a better plan than simple blackmail, after years to prepare?

So this is how Megatron feels. 

His smile twitches up bitterly at the corner as he shoots Rattrap in the processor, then the spark. Rattrap survived the war by hiding, not fighting, clearly. 

"I think I owe Scoop a long-overdue apology," he muses, wiping energon spray off his hands as he watches Rattrap's spark gutter.

Bumblebee sags through Vigilem's floor; his shoulders hunch as he slowly shakes his head. He won't look at Starscream. "How many times do we have to do this?" he asks, dully, his voice heavy with despair. 

Starscream nudges Rattrap's body with a foot and wrinkles his nose in disgust. "One step forward, two steps back. You should know better by now," he says, swallowing the bitterness. "Now, where am I going to put this..."

He doesn't receive a reply. He doesn't expect one: Bumblebee always disapproves of dead bodies. When he checks over his shoulder, Bumblebee is gone.

It stings more than it should. 

[Fascinating.]

Vigilem's voice sounds like he's standing right behind Starscream. It's not the resonating voice Vigilem uses to address the masses - it could have come from the vocalizer of any ordinary mech. Starscream twitches and locates the speaker in the wall a split second later. He twists his instinctive scowl into a bland smile. "Oh, don't mind me. I don't suppose you have a smelter tucked away in your big toe, or something?" he says, resting a hand on his hip, casually. Vigilem doesn't need to have eyes everywhere; Vigilem _is_ everywhere. 

The floor slides open under Rattrap's greying frame, only centimeters from Starscream's feet. A wave of heat billows up from below as Rattrap tumbles into the abyss of Vigilem's lower leg. 

[Done,] Vigilem says, lightly.

Starscream remains perfectly still. He very, very carefully arranges his thoughts before he trusts himself to speak. _This is a dance; don't falter._

If he stumbles, Vigilem will eat him alive.

He smirks. "You. I like you. You are _so_ much more convenient than Metroplex," he says, slathering the charm on like syrup. He steps away from the gap in the floor nonchalantly - like it doesn't bother him that Vigilem could swallow him just as easily. "And what's in this for you?"

[What can I say? Consider me...intrigued.] The voice abruptly switches to emit from another speaker mid-sentence, following Starscream as he drifts toward the sealed edge of the platform. The overlap of Vigilem's voices gives it a strange dissonance; the underside of Starscream's armor crawls with unease. If there's one thing Starscream learned from all that ridiculous combiner nonsense (and the Necrotitan nonsense before that (and the undead Titan nonsense just last month)), it's this: in a contest between him and anyone more than a hundred meters taller than him, he _will not win_. 

The instant Liege Maximo installed the new processor, Vigilem could have killed them all. The only reason Elita is still alive, Starscream suspects, is because dumping her directly into the smelter would be too quick and painless a death for Vigilem's taste. They need to keep track of everyone who enters Vigilem. Tracking beacons, registration - the works. Or people will disappear. 

Well. Starscream can work with that.

Then Vigilem pauses, and adds, [It is strange to wake, and find most of one's enemies are gone, or rendered pathetic beyond recognition. That the world you've dreamed of burning has died a hundred times over already.] The Titan sounds almost meditative. 

"My spark weeps for you. I think I feel a tear welling up," Starscream says, dryly. 

[...A tear?]

"Don't ask."

He takes one more step. He's officially run out of room to go. 

Vigilem opens the platform. Cold night air spills in, sucking the air out of Starscream's vents. 

His small vent of relief probably goes unheard, under the rumble of the armor retracting to let him go. Thank goodness – he'd hate to stumble at the critical moment.

[I have grown rather attached to Windvoice. Do try to keep her alive, as you play your games,] Vigilem says. Amusement fills his voice, and Starscream knows with perfect clarity that it's at his expense. [I will be watching.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Every ounce of my cynicism is supported by historical precedent," is actually just a random quote I picked up from searching on [Goodreads](https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/13026.Glen_Cook). Go figure.
> 
> "Being alone is scary. It's a frightening way to live," on the other hand, comes straight out of Fruits Basket. Who knows why that one decided to stick with me, all these years later...


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The chapter we've all been waiting for.
> 
> Me. I've been waiting for it.
> 
> Hover over other languages for translation.

\---

_Oh no, there ain't[no rest for the wicked](http://www.forthewicked.net/about.php),_

_[Until we close our eyes for good.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HKtsdZs9LJo) _

\- Keanu Reeves of (allegedly) Earth, <<[Death by Black Hole](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_by_Black_Hole)>>

\---

Killing Rattrap is the best idea he's ever had. It simplifies matters immensely. Starscream doesn't have a clue why Wheeljack and Bumblebee make such a fuss about things like this.

Starscream strolls right past one of Rattrap's underlings on his way down to Rattrap's office, and takes advantage of the fact that no one knows Rattrap is dead yet to tear through his files at his leisure. Dredging up Rattrap's _real_ secrets only takes a few hours. Now that he's dead, Starscream doesn't have to care if Rattrap notices him hacking into his main terminal anymore.

Reluctantly, he's impressed. Rattrap's end goal may have been unambitious and uninspired - but "DC-357" apparently spent the majority of his time undermining Starscream so thoroughly and subtly that _it almost worked_. Rattrap stole away Swindle's body, and from there started the widespread rumor that Swindle was still alive by leaking the information to the Combaticons. He supplied the Combaticons with a set of Badgeless armor to stir up more riots and passed on intel to key players to destabilize Starscream's regime. Wheeljack, it seems, was only one more unwitting piece in Rattrap's game.

If the combined Bruticus hadn't destroyed everything in a violent rampage, Onslaught might actually have succeeded, with Rattrap serving him Starscream on a silver platter.

-

Killing Rattrap was the _worst_ idea he's ever had.

They bring him all the paperwork. **All** of it. He can't tell if Rattrap's people are simply being practical about the unspoken, unacknowledged power vacuum in the government, or if this is Rattrap having the last laugh from beyond the Well.

Starscream pours three shots of circuit speeders into his morning energon in the dispensary while a Velocitronian looks on in fascinated horror. He glowers, daring her to comment.

The mech clears her vocalizer, eyeing him with the proper amount of respect and fear. "No offense, sir, but that Cybertronian stuff is pretty much inert," she says. "That's not gonna keep you burning more than a couple hours."

And then she offers him a dropper full of a bright gold, fizzing chemical that she simply refers to as 'only mildly illegal.' Droplets pop and bounce off the surface of the energon before Starscream seals the cube and shakes it.

Velocitron's version of circuit speeders nearly throws him into immediate spark arrest. The Velocitronian, Transmutate, pounds Starscream cheerfully on the back as he clutches his chest. "That's the spirit, sir," she says, encouragingly. Then she skates off on her heelwheels, humming to herself as she goes.

Offering her Rattrap's recently opened vacancy would probably be a terrible idea, too. Starscream shelves it to consider later, when his brain module isn't screeching along an aerial race track, fishtailing wildly at approximately ten billion miles a second.

He lives.

But at what cost.

-

Almost everyone's off planet by morning, except those who intend to stay and fight, or leave with one of the two Titans. The space fleet circles Cybertron in the orbital path cleared of war debris by Luna-2's passage, waiting the final word from planetside to abandon Cybertron.

Strangely, the media find themselves ushered off on an expedited space bridge trip to Devisiun, after Starscream uncovered a scheduling mishap. Out of comms range. A plucky few go-getters attempt to stay on Cybertron to get the scoop on the end of days; Vortex, as Starscream's last remaining bodyguard, gently encourages them to walk through the space bridge. When they come back, they'll find their personal and work comm inboxes scrambled by interference from some unknown source.

What a shame.

(He hasn't seen Bumblebee all day.)

\---

_Let's start with the end of the world, why don't we? Get it over with and move on to more interesting things._

\- N.K. Jemisin, << [The Fifth Season](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/19161852-the-fifth-season)>>

\---

These days, when Wheeljack pings him, Starscream answers. It's never _good_ news, but that's just life.

With four days to go until Unicron, Starscream flies out to the Sea of Rust and fumbles the landing. It's embarrassing, quite frankly - his only excuse is that whatever Transmutate added to his drink make you go _fast,_ even after the mental effects wear off. He hasn't slept in quite a while. The underside of his optics look scorched in the mirror; his spark casing aches like he ran it through a compactor.

If he's going to crash, he's going to do it properly. He just needs to work up the nerve.

He catches himself two stumbling steps later, wings fanned out to catch his balance. When he looks up, Wheeljack is studying him with worried optics. "Show me what you've got," Starscream says, to head Wheeljack off before he can ask.

Wheeljack's impromptu outdoor lab space has sprouted rapidly over the course of the past few weeks: a white platform covers the rough, rusted ground, and computer terminals and other measurement instruments litter the ridge. The air crackles against Starscream's tight EM field with the scent of ozone - a side effect of the energy transmissions Wheeljack set out to stop. He waves Starscream over to one of the terminals and flips his handheld datapad up to access the visual feed from one of the satellites. "Here," he says, taking a step back so Starscream can look.

For a moment, Starscream is weak. He leans in close to Wheeljack, disregarding his own proximity alerts, and stares unseeing at the dancing lights before them. This is the closest he's been to Wheeljack in - some time. Since the night they set Vigilem loose.

He wants to lean in further. A craving sunk deep in his chest, hooked behind his spark and tugging him forward. This is why he should just avoid Wheeljack for the rest of their natural lives. Waver even once, and he'll -

Starscream forces himself to focus on the projection, and immediately regrets it.

Unicron is twice the size of Cybertron, and in constant motion. Several terrestrial planets' worth of rocky debris sough off Unicron like organic skin, leaving a trail of dust and asteroids in the hungry planet's wake. Vast, continent-sized panels of rust-streaked metal flare across Unicron's surface to reveal the churning underside. Fresh panels surge up from beneath as the surface panels slide under. A pair of curving horns, wide enough to encompass all of Cybertron, arch out on either side of a deep pit at the equator. A mouth, ringed by golden, grasping teeth, with the molten glow of an immense smelter at the planet's core.

Good fucking grief. And they called Megatron the Slagmaker. This thing could eat warworlds for breakfast.

"So that's what the thing looks like," Starscream says. He feels light-headed just looking at it. If there's another cursed audio track, Wheeljack isn't playing it.

Wheeljack sighs quietly. "I redirected the energy transmission, but it's still on course for Cybertron. The only thing I can think of now would be to alter the signal. Tell Unicron to go the other way. We just don't have enough time. If I had someone like Perceptor here, maybe..."

The _Lost Light_ remains stubbornly radio silent. No one has been able to get a hold of Megatron and his crew for months, now. Starscream would know; he may or may not have devolved into screaming invectives in the long-range subspace communicator room to order them back to Cybertron five times in the past week. He spammed Megatron's personal hailing frequency to the point where it stopped sending him to voicemail and just redirected him to his own inbox. The last message consisted solely of wordless shrieking.

Starscream's traitorous hand reaches out and claps Wheeljack on the shoulder. Awkwardly. He tries to recoil at the same time, and it doesn't work out well. "Try anyway. It's not like we've got any better ideas," he says, avoiding eye contact. "Or see if you can detect its killing aura. Figure out how close we can get before mechs start dropping like flies."

That much they know. Metroplex continues to be impenetrably vague whenever Windblade consults him, but his warning not to approach Unicron crops up again and again in his thoughts.

The ancient, dusty old histories sent by Requiem never mention Unicron by name. They _did_ contain at least three hundred and forty-two different synonyms for [death], though, which is approximately three hundred and forty-one more synonyms than Starscream needs to live his life.

"You want to try and fight it?" Wheeljack says, skeptically. "Probably be easier to just haul Cybertron out of the way, if we had the power to pull that off..."

Starscream folds his arms and looks up. Somewhere just outside the solar system, Unicron is coming to take Luna-2's spot in the sky.

His vents emit a tiny _pop_ as the pressure abruptly shifts. Across the plain, Shockwave's singularity pulses as it turns and turns. A sparkling halo of energy, diverted from the transmission, rings the singularity. "The older they are, the more decrepit they get. Just look at Alpha Trion," Starscream says, deliberately omitting Liege Maximo's stupidly flawless existence from his dataset. "What I would give to have orbital defense platforms. Or an actual deep space fleet. We barely have enough to get everyone off planet."

With another rough sigh, Wheeljack nods in commiseration. If they have even a fraction of the fleets the Autobots and Decepticons used to field during the war, this wouldn't be an issue. "I'll stay as long as I can. Work on this problem. See if there's anything...anything at all we can do," Wheeljack says. He sits down heavily on a metal container and snaps the seal on a cube of energon.

The energon looks flat, with a stale purple tint. Starscream doesn't want to care about that, or about how exactly Wheeljack has been fueling and recharging when he hasn't left this spot in days. How dare Windblade upstage him by bringing fresh energon out, the other night? He doesn't _want_ to care about -

Irritated, Starscream purses his mouth and digs his fingers into the plates of his arms. He says nothing. Wheeljack drinks, resting his elbows on his knees as he half-dims his optics. Even his biolights look dull, under a thin layer of rust flakes from the ground. When was the last time he saw the inside of a washrack?

Slag it all. Starscream opens his mouth.

Then snaps it shut as Windblade's approach sets off his sensors. He frowns sourly at Windblade as she skims to a stop at the base of the ridge. Compared to him and Wheeljack, she looks like she pulled her act together and got some rest. Her face is still mostly unpainted, which means Starscream can barely read her old facial tells.

She pulls a ridiculous face at him, before breaking into a weird, reluctant smile. Then she waves at Wheeljack before Starscream can get the wrong idea. "Starscream. Wheeljack."

"What are we supposed to call you, again?" Starscream asks, sitting on the corner of one of Wheeljack's work desks.

He still thinks of her as Windblade. More often than not though, though, all you heard before the planet emptied out was _Windvoice_. The Camien who almost died to save Cybertron - in some circles, she died and came back from the Well. The only mech Metroplex speaks to. The one who freed Vigilem from Carcerian lies. A true hero.

Starscream is 80% sure that the Vigilem thing will come crashing down on Windblade's head eventually. Whatever happens with Unicron, Vigilem will eventually make his next play. Until then, Starscream supposes he can take a page out of Bumblebee's book and - cooperate with her.

Perish the thought. But it's useful to give the public the impression that the leader of Cybertron works closely with their beloved hero, and vice versa. As long as she's actually helpful in her own stubborn way, Starscream can make do. Windblade doesn't have to like it.

The people adore her. She walked away from the Council and became something more. It's slowly driving the Mistress of Flame mad.

And Windblade knows it. "Haven't decided," she repeats, dryly.

Her amusement fades as she turns and absorbs the live feed of Unicron projected before them. Starscream adjusts his seat on the edge of the table, his own half-smirk flattening as the three of them stare at Death.

"I'm going below," Windblade says, after the silence stretches a few minutes too long. Good - they were getting maudlin for a moment, there.

Wheeljack blinks. "You're what?"

It hits Starscream next. He presses a finger to his audials and goes through the motions of resetting them. "I'm sorry. I thought I heard you say, _oh yes, I'm on the next space bridge jump out,_ " he says, in his best, mocking imitation of Windblade's voice.

Windblade raises her chin, unapologetic. Her optics are set with steely determination. Primus help them all. "Well. I'm going through _a_ space bridge, first. But then there's something I need to do," she says, firmly.

And that's it. She explains nothing. After wasting a few seconds staring at her, expectantly, Starscream starts to jiggle his foot impatiently. "Go on, then."

"Something is still broken in Cybertron. I'm going to try to repair it," she says. Like it's a statement of a fact.

Starscream rubs his optics. _Do you even know how to get down there?_ he wants to ask. If Windblade knows how dangerous and unstable the mantle and core layers of Cybertron are, he'll eat his helm. "Brilliant. Just vague enough to work."

"Wait, what? The whole planet?" Wheeljack frowns, skeptical. He swishes the last bit of energon in his cube, and Starscream can see particulates where the additives have separated out. "Because Optimus stuck the Matrix into Vector Sigma a while back, and the best we got was...this."

Wheeljack jerks his head at the landscape around them. The Sea of Rust may have gotten worse since Shockwave's little party, but the rest of Cybertron doesn't look much better: lifelessly grey, scarred and cratered by war, even after the reformat that reset the planet. In the years since then, Cybertron has declined further still. Without the old energon reserves, Iacon barely functions - with Metroplex sucking up all their imported resources to repair himself, they've struggled to manage that.

It may not be an uninhabitable, radioactive hellscape anymore, but Cybertron is a lost cause. They're just the poor saps stuck living on it out of some misguided nostalgia.

She smiles wistfully. "I don't need you to believe in me. Despite everything, Cybertron is still reaching out. There's still something left worth saving. And there's...a tool that may be able to help fix whatever's broken."

"Are you _trying_ to give me an aneurysm?" Starscream asks. It's a rhetorical question - Windblade has been actively attempting to give him an aneurysm since the day they met. He knows this for a fact.

"Is it working?" Windblade fires back.

Wheeljack rolls his optics at both of them. "Will you two cut it out for five seconds?"

Starscream and Windblade start to reply at the same time. Starscream cuts off with a sharp crackle when Arcee wanders out from behind a terminal.

Wheeljack waves as though this is _normal_. "'Cee."

Arcee leans against the side of the terminal without looking at any of them. She frowns out at some indeterminate point on the horizon instead, her expression remote. "Windblade. Can you wait a day?" she asks, apropos of absolutely frag all.

Windblade jolts. "I need to retrieve something before I go down. It'll take some time. Why?" she asks, shooting a quick, confused glare in Starscream's direction.

As if anything related to Arcee is his fault. He refuses to take responsibility for Arcee-adjacent matters. Particularly when Arcee appears to be running her own game on the side. He raises his brows at Windblade and shakes his head.

Arcee smirks at Windblade. "Meet me before you go down."

"Where?" Windblade maintains a neutral expression.

"Oh, I'll find you," Arcee says. She really does have menacing down to an art form.

"Will you at least be around if I need to launch a mech-sized whirlwind of death at this thing? All the Phase Sixers are sadly unavailable," Starscream asks, gesturing up at the sky. Might as well toss the question out there, while Arcee's here to ask.

She appears to give it serious thought. "Tempting."

For all Starscream knows, that's Arcee for 'yes, absolutely, fighting Death itself would be a dream come true.' Slag it. He doesn't have high hopes, but he'll take what he can get. The odds of Unicron taking one look at Arcee and running the other direction are non-zero.

The singularity emits a quiet, susurrating fluctuation. Distracted, Starscream almost misses Windblade walking away from Wheeljack's instruments. "Where _are_ you going?" he asks, irritably. Whenever Windblade gets that stubborn look in her eye, it means trouble.

Windblade turns and looks him dead in the eye. "Caminus."

Caminus. A planet she happens to be banished from.

Oh, Windblade is plotting. This is going to be _good_. "Heh. What do you have in mind?"

She shrugs. "High treason. Theft of a sacred relic." A shrug. She presses her lips together, but Starscream can read the repressed twitch of a crooked smile. "We'll see how it goes."

Starscream cracks a slow smile and claps. "I love it. Sass the Mistress of Flame again on your way out, and I'll make it worth your while."

"Your approval fills me with shame," Windblade informs him.

"Ridiculous. I'm a paragon of good sense."

"I'm pretty sure it's illegal in three-quarters of the galaxy for _you_ to say something like that," Wheeljack says.

Starscream flaps his hand at Wheeljack - details, details. He's beset on all sides by Autobots.

Funny. Normally that would annoy him. Right now, he's...in a good mood. He supposes he'll just have to resign himself to growing an Autobot sense of humor, until he can next run a defragmentation cycle. The horror.

"Be careful," Wheeljack says to Windblade. Windblade nods and takes off. The bright pulse of her engines makes it easy to trace her path through the sky, as she aims for Metroplex.

Which leaves Starscream alone with Arcee and Wheeljack.

Or - scratch that. Just Wheeljack. Starscream scans for Arcee, well aware that it's a futile endeavor. He really needs to upgrade his sensors so she can't skulk around like that. All he catches is a brief disturbance in the rust to the east, leading out toward the wastelands, and then nothing.

Nothing left to do except bite the bullet.

"Wheeljack," he says. If he stops to think about it, he'll second-guess himself into oblivion.

"Yeah?"

Starscream feels his wings angling down of their own accord; he forces them to stop trembling and straighten. Nothing about Wheeljack should be intimidating. Wheeljack is just sitting there, looking up at Starscream from his seat, curious.

He's going to regret this, a very loud part of Starscream insists. He always regrets it.

But, like a fool, he wants it.

"I find myself in need of an engineer I trust. Swindle just delivered the last of the parts I requested," Starscream says, in a rush. He clamps down his wrist with his other hand, squeezing until the struts creak. It keeps him - grounded.

Wheeljack says nothing for a very long time. Starscream's lying chronometer says the pause only lasts a few seconds, but it is a _very long time_.

Then Wheeljack clears his throat. His voice sounds odd when he speaks: hoarse, or choked. Starscream's processor wants to pick it apart until he understands the implications of every sound. "I do not know how to break this to you, but I am still not an actual doctor. You know that, right? We've been over this before."

Starscream finds his shoulders and wings hunching in again. He whirls away, optics burning. "Well, I can't just walk up to any old medic, can I?" he says, loudly. His armor is too tight; he wants to rip it off so he can vent properly. "You and I, we're...still...frrrr-" His voice glitches. "- Frrrgkh -"

Wheeljack stands up and takes a hesitant step toward him. Starscream wants to drag him close and shove him away. "Uh...Don't hurt yourself -"

"- Frrriends, right?" It tears his throat on the way out.

Even his chronometer agrees that the silence lasts far too long. Starscream's limbs move jerkily as he forces himself to turn and walk away. His vocalizer cues up something suitably acidic and vicious to throw back at Wheeljack's face as he flies off. Stupid, so stupid -

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here," Wheeljack says, quietly. He scrubs the back of his neck."Hoo boy. Send me the schematics, lemme see what we're dealing with."

For a moment, Starscream shuts off his optics and just - exists.

"I always know I can count on you, Wheeljack," he says.

It doesn't sound nearly as casual as he means it to.

-

Swindle and Vortex are already living on Starscream's ship. Vortex, oblivious to the circumstances behind the incapacitation of the other Combaticons, just shrugged and started patrolling Starscream's ship when ordered to do so. He's bored, but easily managed, so long as Starscream plies him with a steady stream of imported Earth video games to keep his violent impulses in check. Swindle - oddly distraught over Blast Off's decapitation - pounced on Starscream's offer to let him coordinate his affairs from the ship. It means he can make a killing off smuggling various goods of a dubiously legal nature right up until the last second, rather than evacuating with the rest of the planet. Since Swindle's black-market dealings form a solid pillar of the Cybertronian economy even on a good day, Starscream allows it.

It also means Swindle chucked the last few parts for Starscream's new frame right into the high security medical room Starscream reserved for this frame overhaul. It's as far from the CR chambers with Blast Off, Onslaught, and Brawl as he could get in the cramped quarters of the ship.

"Are you _sure_ you want this now? Depending on how long the reintegration takes, you could be out of commission for days. Weeks, even," Wheeljack says, after Starscream ushers him into the room. Everything needed for a full frame replacement is already here; Starscream changes frames often enough that he keeps all the necessary machines on hand.

For some rank amateur swapping bodies for the first time, maybe. Starscream's spark never takes long to reintegrate with a fresh frame. "Nonsense. I'll be fine by morning. I've done this plenty of times before," he says, brushing off Wheeljack's concerns. While Wheeljack inspects the instruments around the room, Starscream bustles over to the cabinets and sweeps a row of painkiller drips aside to reach the false panel along the back. "You've got the schematics, right?" he asks, pulling out a stack of hoarded energon cubes.

Wheeljack nods, distracted as he accesses the sparkrate monitor; when Starscream physically peels Wheeljack's hand away from the monitor and wraps his fingers around an energon cube, Wheeljack starts drinking on auto-pilot. He's as bad as Windblade. Starscream feels the weird urge to start monitoring Wheeljack's fuel intake in case someone tries to take advantage of it to poison him.

He's not sure why anyone would need to poison Wheeljack. It's the principle of the thing.

"I've got everything here," Wheeljack says, as he syncs his datapad with the monitors. The medical berth hums as everything comes online. An automated medical drone hovers in the corner, ready to assist.

A thread of nervousness winds through Starscream's tanks. Completely illogical - he's changed frames a thousand times. He shakes it off and sits hard on the berth, popping the panel on his own arm to attach the connecting cables himself. He has the procedure almost memorized, by now. Only a few deeper connections are needed for the protoform-level adjustments. "Then let's get this over with. The Council meets tomorrow morning at 0400."

Granted, most of the Council delegates have retreated to their own worlds; almost everyone will video-conference in rather than coming in person. Starscream could join the call from the medical room, if need be.

Wheeljack taps on the screen on the side of the berth as Starscream lays down. "Alright. You'll be out in a minute."

The overhanging edge of the medical berth's upper half pulses slightly in Starscream's vision as the chill of an anesthetic drip creeps up his arm. He can't see Wheeljack.

His hand shoots out and catches Wheeljack's arm. His sensors send back a stream of uncertainty as his processor starts to power down. The throbbing visual feedback appears to just be more nerves. "You will still be here? When I - when we're done with this," Starscream says. It takes immense effort to concentrate; his voice sounds strained and wobbly at the same time.

He barely knows what he's asking for.

Wheeljack rests his hand on Starscream's for a moment, then tugs it off his arm. Of course. Starscream's disappointed, through the growing numbness.

Then Wheeljack folds their hands together. "Yeah. I'll stay with you," he says, from a long way away.

Starscream's optics start to shut down properly, in stages. He can't feel his wings. "Shouldn't keep you -" his vocalizer slurs, mid-shut down "- from the Unicron thing. Very important thing."

He can't feel the pressure on his hand anymore. His proprioceptors vaguely register Wheeljack adjusting Starscream's arm on the berth as it magnetizes him in place - then the magnetoreceptors themselves turn off, and he's adrift.

"I won't leave you alone," Wheeljack says.

Wheeljack never asked about the Bumblebee thing.

He could kill Starscream right now.

"I've missed you," Starscream says - or maybe just thinks it - and then he's gone -

\---

_Why do you go away?_

_So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors._

\- Terry Pratchett of Earth, <<[A Hatful of Sky](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/67857-why-do-you-go-away-so-that-you-can-come)>>

\---

Metroplex understands.

Without her asking, he activates his space bridge, before she even reaches his vast spark chamber. Only a few guards and technicians are here, at this time of night, and all of them recognize Windblade on sight.

Windblade assumed that when the Mistress of Flame declared her a blasphemer against the Primes, exiled from Caminus, the Camiens who chose to live and work on Cybertron would shun her. Instead, the cityspeaker trainees with their unfinished faces whisper at her approach, their optics wide and full of awe. "Windvoice," one of them says, reverent; the others hurry to shush her, giggling nervously as they back away.

She strides right up to the space bridge without stopping to explain herself or her destination. One of the technicians scrambles to read the space bridge terminal, caught off guard by Metroplex's sudden activation. With any luck, they won't know where she's going until after she's there.

If she hesitates, she's lost.

Starscream's approval lingers in the back of her mind. But one sour note isn't enough to stop her.

The space bridge resonates with Caminus, and Windblade steps through, tuning out the shouts of the guards in her ears.

-

On Caminus's side of the space bridge, Windblade steps out into the cool early morning air.

It's always cool, on Caminus. It has been ever since their star faded. The only light comes from generator-powered power grids, from power plants newly refueled from trade with Cybertron and the other colonies, and from Caminus himself.

But what Caminus lacks in light, it makes up for in beauty.

Cybertron forgot art: first dismissed as unnecessary and brutally suppressed, under their Functionists, and then forgotten, with the war. Windblade understands, now. She takes what Repository sends her with a judicious grain of salt, since Starscream let it slip that they used to be a Decepticon, but their history holds up under scrutiny. Cybertron's old Senate stripped their language down to the bone to eliminate inefficiencies; Cybertron lost their poetry, their songs. They still try - Windblade has seen it - but they struggle to reclaim what they've lost; to create new things.

On Caminus, they never stopped. They never suffered through a war like that, one whose scope Windblade still fights and fails to understand. In the twilight, under the pale gold strings of biolight granted by Caminus, the city of Cordis gleams like a polished jewel - brilliant silver and blue curves of metal pattern the ground, and arches of red that frame the raised concourse where Caminus's space bridge rises up. Gold-plated symbols outline the square, and murals and mosaics created by Caminus's most celebrated artists cover the walls and pillars.

When the combiners came, they destroyed so much. Caminus's people built it again, more beautiful than before.

Six guards stand between Windblade and the steps leading down. Unlike those on Metroplex's side of the bridge, they've drawn their weapons to ward her off. "Cityspeaker Windblade. You know you can't be here," one of them says. Their expression is hidden behind their visor; the energy blade at the end of their spear wavers but doesn't drop as Windblade takes another step forward.

She knew from the beginning she'd have to do this quickly. Her only chance is to break past them and fly hard for the Chamber of the Forgefire. "I know," Windblade says, swallowing hard, as she draws her sword and ignites the electric pink energy blade. Her spark hurts. "I'm sorr-"

The square rumbles, deep beneath their feet. The guards stagger, their cautious stances shaken as they look around frantically for the source.

The last time Caminus shook like this, combiners shattered half of Cordis.

A wave of metal ripples through the northern gate, and Windblade's spark catches in her throat. The rippling metal doesn't waver even once as it crosses the square and crests the stairs. The guards part to let it through; more than a few jaws drop when they see what's coming. It's not someone travelling over the ground - it _is_ the ground, molding and reshaping itself until the wave stops before Windblade.

Here, in the very center of Cordis, where the metal beneath their feet gleams a living silver.

"Caminus?" she whispers.

[At last.]

It would appear, Windblade thinks, ruefully, that she's not going to steal the Forge of Solus Prime after all. Caminus offers it to her, balanced on a curve of metal like a gift.

[κάμῑνος], the script reads. Interweaving glyphs carved into the sides of the handle form different words; when Windblade reaches out, the raised edges and dips of the carvings are arranged perfectly as a guide for where her fingers should wrap around the hilt. The star metal of the hammer's head burns with searing pink light that verges on white - it traces the lines of the hammer like biolights, all of it emanating from a white-hot sphere of power embedded in the hammer. Even now, after how many millennia safely guarded within the heart of Caminus, the hammer steams in the freezing air.

The Forge.

All six guards fall to their knees.

And Windblade hesitates, curling her fingers back. A surge of guilt courses through her as she squeezes the hilt of the sword in her other hand. She would have cut a bloody swathe through the heart of a sacred place to reach what Caminus offers freely.

She drops the sword with a clank. "For me?" she asks, to be sure.

[- forged and reforged and forged and reforged -]

[It's timeTempo[?] - when have you gone?]

[- _and even if the City falls and one of us survives_

_he will carry the City inside him -]_

[Eādem mūtāta resurgō]

[Solus? Are you still there? Can you hear -]

                                                       [In vento cogitatio, spirat in vento ]

[- and she will heed the call.]

Caminus nudges the Forge toward her, the overlapping cacophony of words and distant thoughts ringing in her ears, until the hammer taps against her hand. His thoughts are as fragmented as Metroplex's at his worst – but she knows how to interpret them, now.

[Windblade,] Caminus says, all around them. 

"Windvoice," she corrects him, as she accepts the Forge. Caminus wouldn't know - it's been a long, long time since she last spoke to him.

The metal wave folds up and sinks back into the floor like a wave of water into the sea. The Forge seethes with heat under Windvoice's hands as she holds it close.

[I'll meet you there -]

[What is the Forge?]

                                            [- where I am going you won't be in the end -]

[ -tronus, I need you to do something for me.]

[- standing, look to the end -]

[- lovealways loved.]

[Go now. There are other worlds than these.]

And with a quiet note that hums, deep in their chests, Caminus's consciousness sinks back into sleep.

"What did Caminus say?" the lead guard whispers, with a trembling voice. "Cityspeaker Windblade, you are blessed."

Windvoice wonders how they couldn't hear it. "I can't speak for any Titan. I only speak for myself," she says, turning the Forge over in her hands. Then she turns back toward the shimmering blue space bridge. "My apologies for trespassing. Goodbye."

Her parting smile leans a little too close to a smirk.

She's clearly spending too much time around Starscream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've run out of buffer chapters that I've already written, so expect some short delays as I actually, you know. Write the ending.
> 
> Excerpts in Caminus's thoughts come from: [here,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=__gHmJbu80g), [here](https://homestuck.bandcamp.com/track/song-of-skaia), [here](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/437-out-beyond-ideas-of-wrongdoing-and-rightdoing-there-is-a), [here](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45292/hymn-to-proserpine-after-the-proclamation-in-rome-of-the-christian-faith), [here](http://999poems.blogspot.com/2012/07/782-report-from-besieged-city-by.html), [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eadem_mutata_resurgo), and [here](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/13466-go-then-there-are-other-worlds-than-these).


	9. Chapter 9

_\---_

_ Sing in me, O Muses, and through me tell _

_ Of the one who came first[Primus [?]], the spark in the heart of the world _

_ Of Titans who heard it[pronoun designation], and answered[note: diction connotes autonomous will, previously lacking] _

_ Of Vivere, sweet Muse of Life, who held her sisters as a symphony[alt - as Symphonia [name designation]] _

_ Of those freeborn[Knights] who strove in tempestuous heaven against the gods[alt - owners] _

_ Of the moon who out of love would not return _

_ Of the dawn[alt - renewal [metaphorical]] that would not come. _

\- Eucryphia of the Citadel of Light, <<The Hyperuranian Suitesection 0: [freedom and not peace](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-victor-hugo/)>>; trans. Repository of Tetrahex

\---

Starscream wakes up. A promising start. "How long was I out?" he groans, as his auxiliary systems come back online. His protoform feels like someone just went in, uprooted all his deep connections and inner frame, and installed a newer, much heavier set of armor. Which is exactly what happened. He's not sure why he thought it might feel any different than it has in the past.

"Two days," Wheeljack informs him, just as his chronometer kicks back in to confirm it. Dear Wheeljack, who made sure to be here when Starscream woke up -

Starscream bolts upright and nearly slams his head into the top of the medical berth. "What the slag went wrong?" Something must have gone wrong. Something _always_ goes wrong. Wheeljack looks intact and unharmed: no sign of scorch marks or dents, like Starscream would expect to see if they'd come under attack while Starscream was out. Starscream scans Wheeljack up and down again, to be sure, and stands up from the berth as soon as the last of the magnets release him. 

Wheeljack shakes his head. On closer inspection - Starscream waits for his processor to adjust to being half a meter taller than he used to be - Wheeljack's armor looks cleaner, less clogged with flakes of rust. "Nothing, s'far as my readouts show. Integration with your protoform went without a hitch - it just needed more time," he says, inspecting Starscream in turn. Using one last wire linked to Starscream's medical panel, he runs a balance system check; Starscream huffs and permits it. "How are you feeling?"

 _Better. Worse. Like you could drop out from under me again at any moment_. Starscream grimaces and says nothing. Wheeljack can already access his current physical status at the touch of a button; they aren't at the point where Starscream's comfortable voicing his thoughts.

As for the new body, it feels...odd. Right. Strangely natural; not the kind of strain on his spark he'd anticipated from upping his overall size this much. But odd. The integration process continues to tick up towards 100% in his brain module, but the change is extreme enough that Starscream feels like he's perpetually off balance.

When he looks in the mirror positioned strategically across the room, he's blue. Blue everywhere, with red and grey and white accents. None of them are colors he hasn'tworn before, but with the purple optic lenses and the extra mass overall, it's very - different. He won't know if it's truly _right_ until he flies, though: if his speed decreases by even a click, it's garbage. 

He changes the subject. "I'll live. Have those menaces impeached me in my absence?"

When the balance check finishes with a faint beep, Wheeljack unhooks the cord. "Not that I've heard," he says. 

Starscream snaps the medical panel shut and rubs his arm. "Hm. They really need to step up their game. I'm unconscious for two days, and not a single coup? That's just sad," he says, sighing dramatically as he strides to the door. He undoes all the security locks - keyed only to himself and Wheeljack - and heads down the hall. Did no one around here except Rattrap have any kind of initiative? 

"You really want people trying to overthrow you?" Wheeljack asks, skeptical, as he keeps pace with Starscream.

"That's not the _point_ , Wheeljack," Starscream says. "What's the status on Unicron?"

"It's here." 

Starscream stumbles. It's clearly because Wheeljack sabotaged him and made his feet a centimeter too short. _Clearly._

Wheeljack clears his vocalizer and has the decency to sound apologetic after Starscream regains his dignity. "Sorry, we still have time, but - yeah. It breached our Oort cloud this morning and munched right through all the old war armaments and space junk floating around out there. We detected a couple of leftover stealth nukes exploding on impact in the outer asteroid belt. I altered the energy transmission signal a hundred different ways, but nothing changed." A heavy, quiet vent, as Wheeljack lowers his eyes. He raises his datapad half-sparkedly and waggles it. "I'm still trying. Got the signal on shuffle. But I don't think that's gonna do it."

Looks like Starscream gets to break this new frame in with a bracing round of tank-curdling tension. Par for the course. At least his processor has been forcibly reset to 'well-rested.' "Keep trying," he says, grazing Wheeljack's arm with a reassuring hand before he loses his nerve. "Any news on Windblade?"

Wheeljack's voice takes on a note of ironic humor. "Windvoice, now. She's laying low until Arcee shows. But you probably have a metric slagton of extradition demands from the Mistress of Flame waiting in your inbox right now. Depending on who you ask, she's either a blasphemous traitor to Caminus, or the next Solus Prime. Either way, they _really_ want her back."

Ah, delightful. Starscream looks forward to losing all those extradition requests - funny how things like that go missing during a crisis. As far as he's concerned, Windvoice is either a force to be reckoned with (in which case Bumblebee's advice to stay on her good side sounds better with each passing day) or she's setting herself up for a fall from a monumental height. As long as Starscream stays on top of things, he can handle either option. 

"Interesting. I'll need to deal with the Council, then," he says. Then he slows midstep, a little off kilter. He looks anywhere but at Wheeljack. "I - you -"

"Just thank him like a normal person. For once in your life," Bumblebee orders. 

Starscream nearly misses another step, startled. When he looks around, he spies Bumblebee perched on the edge of a terminal by the shuttle bay door, raising his hand with a rueful twist of his mouth as Starscream and Wheeljack walk past him. His semi-opaque image flickers slightly but doesn't fade when Starscream's widened wingspan passes through him.

Starscream's tanks clench. Well. He supposes sanity might have been too much to ask for. Wheeljack can't work miracles all the time.

"And where have you been?" he mutters under his breath. To Wheeljack, he says, still hesitant, "But. Yes. I. Thank you. Very much. This is more than I...expected." He flexes his dark, smooth new hands for emphasis. The guns installed deep in the heavy armor of his arms cycle on and off without even a hitch; Wheeljack installed them flawlessly. 

"You want to talk about it?" Wheeljack asks.

"Talk about what?" Starscream eyes the shuttle waiting in the docking bay, and then considers his own alt mode. With the deep space modifications...

Behind them, Bumblebee vents a sigh. "Starscream."

A trace of irritation runs through him. "Let me guess. The thank you didn't meet your exacting Autobot standards," he replies. To Bumblebee or Wheeljack, or maybe both; he's not sure.  


"Nah. About what happened, when you went into Windblade's mind to save her," Wheeljack says. His optics look terribly gentle over his inscrutable mask. "What's happening with Bumblebee, right now."

Starscream freezes. 

Bumblebee sighs again, like he knew this was coming. As if something in Starscream's subconscious _knew_ they couldn't avoid this forever -

"I don't know what you're talking about," Starscream says, numb on the inside. He feels nothing. He feels _nothing_. He smashes the button to decompress the shuttle bay and open the far doors with a fist, then stares at his own hand, unseeing, inside of looking anywhere in the general vicinity of Wheeljack.

Wheeljack shatters whatever thin hope Starscream had left. "Starscream, you've been talking to him since you brought me out of that CR chamber. This...I've known about this for a long time," he says. When he reaches out to touch Starscream's shoulder, Starscream stands there without moving, his armor clamped tight. "I should've said something, but...A protoform-deep frame reintegration might have reset some things -"

Starscream shakes off the hand. He can't handle Wheeljack's pity right now. "Stop. Just stop. Please," he says - he doesn't beg - and steps away as the shuttle bay doors slide open, so that Wheeljack's gentle hand closes on nothing. 

And Wheeljack stops. Perversely, Starscream wishes he wouldn't - wishes Wheeljack would keep pushing until Starscream cracks and -

He can't break right now. No matter how tempting the thought might be. Neither he nor Wheeljack can afford to waste time picking up Starscream's pieces, at the moment, and Starscream knows it. 

"Promise you'll talk to me. If you can't talk to anyone else. Please," Wheeljack says, instead. 

Starscream slides into his alt mode instead. Smooth as oil; Wheeljack must have tweaked his transformation cog as well during the upgrade. "Of course," Starscream says, switching to comms so that none of his traitorous emotions slip out in his voice. "See you on the ground."

Then he's out, in the black, and he can distract himself with the dizzying wideness of space, the minefield of near-Cybertronian air space, and the wild, perfect moment when he lets his engines fly free, and finds himself faster than ever before.

\---

_[I will not let myself become tired. I'll jump into my story even though it should cut my face to pieces.](https://books.google.com/books?id=j6WIHMphOD4C&pg=PA28&lpg=PA28&dq=i%27ll+jump+into+my+story+even+though+it+should+cut+my+face+to+pieces&source=bl&ots=peK26DXlPy&sig=mkfClmRR8Csf_KFxmPft3FxVh9U&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwj_nYnb_sHZAhURKKwKHYfTCrQQ6AEILzAB#v=onepage&q=i'll%20jump%20into%20my%20story%20even%20though%20it%20should%20cut%20my%20face%20to%20pieces&f=false)_

_\- Hesperus of Tempo, <<Metronome>> _

\---

"- on the issue of Starscream's -"

Starscream chimes into the conversation by opening his video conference feed and _then_ swiveling around in his chair, for maximum dramatic effect. "My ears are burning," he drawls, pressing the tips of his fingers together as he smirks at the Council, projected on the screens before him.

The Mistress of Flame doesn't miss a beat, considering the fact that he caught her mid-gossip. The sunrays rising from the upper crest of her cape are backlit by golden light, as though she's positioned herself beside a lamp to look radiant despite the terrible video quality across such long distances. The Velocitronians look washed out in comparison, though their frame rate is better. Subtle, but effective, if one doesn't know what to look for. "We were informed that you were undergoing surgery," the Mistress of Flame says, her golden optics scrutinizing Starscream coolly. "I can see your priorities during a crisis are - quite clear."

Little does she know that Starscream has no shame. He preens, fanning his wings out further and leaning back so that his new frame is front and center, and smirks flirtatiously. "Like it? I'm trying out a new look," he says, lightly, with a flourish of his hand. 

The curl of disdain on her face is worth a thousand words. Starscream lounges back further still and gets down to business. "Now. Unicron has entered the Cybertronian solar system. Unless you all brainstormed any stellar new ideas in my absence, I need to marshal Cybertron's long-range forces for a potential first strike."

"We can't do this right now," one of the Devisiun contingent says, out of nowhere. They sound worried, their voice higher pitched than usual.

And Starscream realizes, belatedly, that he may have misread the room.

The Mistress of Flame shakes her head, grand and sober, her red coronet glinting in the warm glow of her strategic lighting. "I fear it cannot wait," she says. Her cloak shimmers as she straightens on her end of the feed. Her next words are somehow even more formal than before. "Lord Starscream. Are you, or are you not harboring the fugitive Windblade on Cybertron?"

Starscream flicks a non-existent fleck of space dust off his knee. "Never heard of her."

The Camien video feed fizzles into static-riddled light, before the projection stabilizes again on a private comm line. Starscream obligingly mutes the other Council representatives with a wave of his hand. Once that's done, the Mistress of Flame continues. "Give her to Camien custody, and perhaps we can come to an agreement. Until this trial has passed, and Unicron is dealt with," she says. "I will not offer this chance again."

Slag. Starscream narrows his eyes and represses a grimace. A cold, flat expression suits him better. "If you're talking about _Windvoice_ -" he stresses the changed name, and watches with cool relish as a ripple of equally-repressed fury flickers across the Mistress of Flame's smooth face "- I have no idea where she is. And quite frankly, I don't have the resources or time to waste hunting her down right now. You tried this once already with Chromia. How well did it work out last time?"

It's a dangerous move, since they've had two days with Starscream blacked out to plot against him. Wheeljack can't be blamed for not knowing - he's a scientist, not a politician. But Starscream's willing to gamble that in a popularity contest between Windvoice and the Mistress of Flame, Windvoice is winning. Handing her over to whatever trumped up, ridiculous theocratic justice they have on Caminus would lose Starscream more than he would gain.

The Mistress of Flame shakes her head, her optics dimmed in a passable imitation of dignified disappointment. "So be it," she says.

Then she onlines her optics, and switches back to the public video call. "Caminus calls for a vote of no-confidence in Lord Starscream of Cybertron. He has demonstrated flagrant disregard for the sovereignty of fellow worlds under the terms of the Council, and may no longer be considered mentally fit to hold office. Leaving him in command as High Chancellor may lead to further abuse of authority and undermining of the accord between our worlds." 

And there it is. Starscream feels his smirk widen into something that's not a smile: too many teeth, too feral. If this is the game she wants to play -

Another holoscreen snaps into view, on the far side of the Eukarians. They've been part of the video conference on voice mode only, Starscream realizes, far too late.

"Carcer seconds the vote," Elita says, fingers folded together as she meets Starscream's bared teeth with a predatory grin of her own.

"You don't even go here!" Starscream exclaims, appalled. A quick glance around the conference screens shows uncertainty in the Devisens, the Eukarians - but the Velocitronians look grim, or neutral at best, and Starscream has no idea where they stand. 

The last screen pops up, and Starscream feels the world slam down on him like the heel of Megatron's foot. 

"And Earth thirds," Optimus Prime says. 

Optimus Prime, who _definitely_ doesn't go here. Optimus Prime, with his stupid low, gravelly voice, and his stupid, grave charisma, and his stupid slagging weight with the entire Camien population. Optimus Prime, whose patronizing eyes judge Starscream and find him wanting without hesitation, and who has probably been waiting for an excuse to do this for _years_. Anything to give him an excuse to drag his entitled little planet full of organics into the Council and pretend that they're _important._

Starscream digs the sharp tips of his fingers into the palms of his fresh new hands until energon drips from his hand, and knows exactly how this conversation is going to end. He doesn't have enough. Not here, not now, with barely a few hours of prep work, with the other colonies silent as they allow Carcer and Earth to barge into the Council meeting without protest. He's clung to what he has by a wafer's breadth for years now, improvising wildly on the fly time and time again. But he's -

"There are many questions concerning your actions over the past few years. Are you prepared to answer them truthfully?" the Mistress of Flame says, condescendingly. As though she's speaking to a protoform.

Airazor cuts in. "Eukaris opposes. We believe we should postpone a major decision like this on the eve of battle. We would throw Cybertron into political turmoil when they are least equipped to handle it. The question of Lord Starscream's infringement on others' sovereign boundaries is an important one that must be addressed, but not here, and not now."

The voices start to sound like static in Starscream's ears as he stares at the blood running down his new wrist. 

"A political figure who consults with hallucinations of his own devising before consulting his fellow Council members cannot be trusted to make objective decisions," someone argues.

"And he's delusional if he thinks he alone can strip a Council delegate of their rank, just because their people have been cast out from their home." Elita gestures widely, her eyes hard as she glares at the screen. "Would any of you expect to lose your seats if your people survived the destruction of their world? Or if Cybertron falls to Unicron, should Starscream not lose his seat in turn?" she demands.

Starscream stares at his hands as they talk over each other, and feels -

"Starscream," Bumblebee says. Trying to knock him out of his silent stupor, no doubt.

And Starscream realizes, the thought crystallizing even as he opens his mouth, that he _has had enough._

"Oh, frag it all. Let me make this very easy for all of you," he snaps, silencing the conference call. "I quit."

The silence rings loudly in his audials. 

"What." 

No less than three people say it at the same time. This. _This_ is the best idea Starscream has ever had. His spark pounds in his chest with trembling exhilaration. His whole frame trembles, like it could shake apart any second. Why did he choose a room with no windows for this? He wants to throw them all a rude hand gesture, do a magnificent backflip out the window, and _gun it_. He wants to be gone and away and never have to sign a single slagging form ever again.

How long has he been miserable? This is what happens when he gets what he wanted? Fine! 

Besides. What better way to spite Rattrap, after all that, than to just...walk away?

Starscream kicks his chair back from the makeshift desk. His grin hinges on manic. "You heard me. I quit. You had two days to unseat me yourselves, and you blew it," he says, gleefully. Prime's brow is furrowed with confusion; Elita stares at Starscream, her mouth hanging open slightly and eyes narrowed in befuddled suspicion. The Mistress of Flame looks deeply offended, her hand pressed to her chest in an eerie imitation of Windvoice's old tic. 

Best of all, Bumblebee looks like he may faint.

Starscream basks in the trembling, blissful warmth of true _vindication_ for a moment, and then mockingly salutes the Council of Worlds. "As soon as Unicron's dead, Cybertron will hold elections for its next high chancellor. You'll be their problem, then," he tells them, with an over-exaggerated sigh of relief. 

Then he saunters off screen. "Finally!" he yells over his shoulder, for good measure.

He snaps his fingers to end the call.

Unheard by anyone else, Bumblebee emits a gurgling noise in his wake.

\---

_The centre cannot hold._

\- Yeats of Earth, <<The Second Coming>>

\---

"I don't know whether I'm proud of you or not," Bumblebee says, when he finally catches up. "Yeah. Really mixed bag of feelings, here." 

Starscream is taking advantage of the deserted government headquarters to meander through the empty halls. He waves a grand farewell to one of Ironhide's guards. No one has any idea that Starscream quit five minutes ago, and he cackles as soon as they're out of sight. Bumblebee jogs to keep up with him; he stares at Starscream's grin with a mixture of fascination and disbelief. Like he doesn't recognize Starscream anymore. 

He snorts and waves his hand flippantly at Bumblebee. "Oh, whatever. Nothing I do makes you happy," he says, far more amused about it than he would be normally. Bumblebee's judgement is nothing new. Better yet, Bumblebee's judgement can't affect him in real life. Very low stakes, all things considered.

"Are you. Are you seriously quitting? After everything you've done to make it this far?"

Starscream throws his arms wide. "And here I thought you'd be pleased! Cybertron can be someone else's problem!" And good riddance to bad rubbish. He's starting to suspect that the planet has a death wish. Surely it's not possible for one world to come under attack that many times in quick succession. It's just not natural. 

As far as he's concerned, Starscream's done his time. He had a good run. But three world-threatening crises should probably be the hard limit for any governing ruler of an entire planet. If he ever leads a planet again he intends to write that into any contract they make him sign. Though he should really should aim higher next time. "I have an inkling as to who the people might vote for, too," he adds, with a sly grin, just to annoy Bumblebee. "Perhaps Rattrap was onto something, being the power behind the throne. Being _on_ the throne really hasn't agreed with my digestion."

The concern abruptly vanishes from Bumblebee's face. "Suddenly, I'm not worried anymore. Still the same Starscream," he says, dry as rust. Bumblebee cocks his head and studies Starscream's face for a long minute. "Do you think you'll regret it?"

Probably. Starscream inevitably regrets everything. Even now a part of his processor, clawing its way down from the adrenaline high, shrieks that he's doomed himself; the next time the Council comes for him, he won't have any standing at all -

Better than winding up under Prime's overbearing thumb. Which is what Starscream strongly suspects they were building up to. Tch. 

As they step out onto the desolate street, a crumpled bit of debris blows across the deserted stretch of road like they've traveled back in time ten years to the bombed-out shell of a ruined city. Starscream can't even begin to sort out his thoughts to answer Bumblebee. He looks up at the sky instead, half-imagining the shuddering, ever-shifting outline of Unicron overhead. 

Then he resets his optics in a blink. His smile becomes a grimace in record time. "Please tell me that isn't who I think it is," he says.

Bumblebee frowns and looks up, shading his eyes against the sun. After a moment, full of trepidation, he says, "That's not the _Lost Light._ "

If the high-pitched, growing sound of someone screeching as the unfamiliar ship cartwheels through atmospheric re-entry is any indication, Starscream would beg to differ. "Shows up at the last second, screaming at the top of their collective lungs? Obviously it's the Lost Light in spirit, if not in person," he argues, as he picks up the pace. The exhilarated fervor in his chest shudders and throttles down into something more controlled. On the one hand, Perceptor and Brainstorm could still assist Wheeljack in a last minute save. 

On the other hand - Megatron.

"Can't argue with that logic," Bumblebee mutters, taking to his wheels as Starscream transforms midstep.

"If they crash into poor, dear Shockwave's memorial, whatever will we do?" Starscream says, sarcastically, as he traces the trajectory of the erratic, tumbling ship toward the Sea of Rust in his HUD.

Bumblebee honks at him. The _nerve_. "Never say that again."

-

By the time they reach Wheeljack's pad, it's clear that the ship isn't the _Lost Light_. The _Lost Light_ always looked rather like someone launched a large chunk of a building into the air, and it refused to obey gravity out of sheer bloody-mindedness. 

_This_ looks like Skip, who Starscream only knows because he dredges up the name from the bowels of the Decepticon network. A very...er, enlarged Skip, with most of his paint greyed out in death apart from some bright neon highlights. 

Decepticons aren't exactly strangers to reusing dead body parts, but - slag, that must be a considerable amount of mass-displacement. "What on Cybertron are they doing, flopping around in the air like that?!" Starscream hisses, as he drops out of the air. He misjudges the landing slightly with his new height, and lands with a heavy thud that shakes some of the more delicate instruments. It's a work in progress.

"You got me. I'm trying to hail them, but they're not answering," Wheeljack says. He fiddles with one of the dials on a terminal, his other hand pressed to the side of his head as he uses comms on Autobot frequencies. He's too distracted to shoot Starscream more than a flicker of a worried look. Small favors.

Starscream sniffs. "Like _that's_ anything new." Then he raises his voice pointedly. "You're a wanted mech, Windvoice."

With a grunt and a _clank_ like she elbowed the side of the terminal in surprise, Windvoice steps out from behind the terminal, rising from her crouch to glare at him. "I know. I accepted that when I made my choice."

Her giant hammer is marginally less color-coordinated than the Mistress of Flame's, but far more impressive given that it probably weighs as much as Windvoice does. It's grey and pink and clearly built for someone _obscenely_ tall compared to everyone here, and the hammerhead seethes with heat where it lays against her back. "I'm just saying, this isn't the subtlest hiding spot. Everyone and their conjunx knows you've hung out around here lately," Starscream says. He neglects to mention that most of the extradition notices now sit sadly in the heap of his inbox, forever to be ignored. 

Windvoice shakes her head at him, then glances warily at the sky. "I'm only waiting for Arcee for a few more hours. Then I head below, whether she's here or -"

Her optics widen suddenly. Starscream drops to his knees before Wheeljack finishes shouting, "Incoming!"

The corpse-ship formerly known as Skip must have heard them denigrating his flight skills; the dead alt mode veers down out of the sky without warning, engines whining at an agonizing pitch as the ship drops at a ninety-degree angle. Whoever's manually piloting the fragging thing manages to wrest it into a shallower trajectory at the last minute - but the edge of Skip's wing clips a rust-scarred crag to the east of them and with one final spin the ship crashes, gouging a deep groove into the metal turf and sending up a billowing cloud of rust flakes.

It rolls to a stop midway between Wheeljack's makeshift lab and the singularity. The singularity gives a hollow pop, then subsides. Shockwave's legacy lives to see another day. 

As rust rains down on them, Starscream gags and clears his vents in a huff. "They let Rodimus drive that thing, didn't they. Idiots," he grumbles. He fans his wings to shake off the dust in Windvoice's direction.

Wheeljack coughs up a significant quantity of flakes and pounds his chest to help his ventilation system along. "Fragging pit. Uh. Don't touch anything. That ship took a bath in some _weird_ quantum particles," he warns them, scrubbing at his maskplate with the back of his hand. They're all going to need a deep clean after this.

Starscream reaches over and plucks a sheave of rusty metal the length of his finger off the side of Wheeljack's audial and flicks it away. "It's obviously the _Lost Light_ come again," he insists to Wheeljack and Windvoice. And Bumblebee, only just now driving up.

Wheeljack arches his brow as something beeps frantically on his screens. "I think you might be right."

On second thought, Starscream didn't want to be right. Ugh. 

Just to mock him, the hatch of Skip's altmode kicks open with a wrenching squeal, and a deep purple Rodimus rolls out. 

It is _so_ not his color. Starscream stores up some derisive comments for later; right now, he's busy scanning each mech who crawls out after Rodimus, searching for any trace of Megatron. 

The _Lost Light_ left with a couple hundred mechs, give or take a few. A mere fraction of them emerge from Skip, all battered and bedraggled, like something the turbofox dragged in. Perceptor, Starscream is displeased to note, is not one of them. 

Neither is Megatron. He's not sure whether to call the feeling in his chest relief or not. 

"Never. Again," one of the Camien tag-alongs groans, her voice muffled as she rests her helm against the ground.

Rodimus flops over onto his back, slovenly. "I want my ship back." 

Deadlock drags Ratchet out on his hands and knees, wheezing, and collapses beside Rodimus. Ultra Magnus is upright and at attention, but he sports more than a few scorch marks on his armor, and glances around in a wild daze, as if he expects a Decepticon to pop up out of nowhere and shout 'boo.'

This is just sad. Starscream strolls down the ridge when it becomes clear that none of the much-reduced _Lost Light_ crew intend to pull themselves together and act useful any time soon. Windvoice drops down to join him, but rushes over to the two Camiens. "Nice of you all to drop in. Just in time for the end of the world," Starscream drawls, looming over Rodimus with an unamused expression.

Rodimus blinks up at him, then buries his face in his hands. "Eerughguehrgh."

"I often feel the same way when I look at Starscream," Windvoice says, helpfully.

The nerve of some people. Starscream stamps his foot just to see Rodimus yelp and jump up reflexively. Ultra Magnus's weapons activate with an audible, startled whine; Starscream ignores him. "Where have you people been?! We're in the middle of a crisis!"

"We thought you were dead. You're missing a few people," Wheeljack calls down, crouched at the edge of the ridge as he worriedly glances over the sorry crowd of Autobots and Autobot-adjacents. Always worrying about others.

"Mutiny. I don't want to talk about it," Rodimus says, sullenly. Still flopped on the ground, Deadlock mumbles vague agreement. 

Good grief. This really is pathetic. Starscream rolls his eyes. "Megatron? Typical. Hypocrite." All those years he spent mocking Starscream for his ambition, and what does the aft do the second they leave him unsupervised?

"No, surprisingly enough. Long story," Nightbeat says, pushing himself upright. He looks around blearily, just as twitchy as Ultra Magnus. "Where did he go?"

This jolts Rodimus out of his self-pitying daze. He bolts upright, head whipping around like a daisy. "Anyone have eyes on him? Whirl?"

Whirl, also splayed out in the rust, raises a single claw and gestures futilely at the sky. "Too tired. Tell Cyclonus...he can have my guns," he says, dramatically folding his other arm over his helm. Beside him, Cyclonus - without even the decency to roll his eyes - pushes up from his kneeling crouch with his sword as a lever. His face is a royal mess of scars.

Oh, joy. Starscream scans them all again - they're _all_ in rough shape, but some of the dents and injuries are fresh. They've brought something dangerous back with them. The inconsiderate afts. "What have you idiots done?!" Starscream demands.

"Killmaster. He caught up with us," Rewind says, grimly, as he crawls out from under Chromedome. 

"There he is!" Brainstorm shouts, pointing back toward the crumpled remains of Skip.

Killmaster pops up out of nowhere. He does not, sadly, yell 'boo' - Starscream's not sure Killmaster ever wandered over to Earth at any point in the past few decades. He easily dwarfs Skip's dead frame - he's more massive than Starscream remembers, yellow and purple and with a face only a hulking menace could love. His gauntlets could easily pick up Starscream's new body and shake him like a ragdoll.

Right. Starscream backpedals away from Rodimus, hands up as he silently mouths, 'I'm not with them,' at Killmaster.

Killmaster clacks his customized mouth, a nightmare of overlapping teeth and unnecessary parts, and levels a huge, imposing finger at Brainstorm. His voice is the same deep, smooth rumble Starscream last heard so many centuries ago. "Now then," he says, closing his gauntlet into a fist. "For the last time. Give me back my wand, tiny jet plane. I will not ask nicely again."

"You haven't been asking nicely at all!" Brainstorm shrieks, clutching himself as he backs away. Killmaster clambers over Skip with terrible ease, crushing a greyed wing under a foot as wide as Starscream's wingspan. The ground shudders under all of them as the _Lost Light_ crew scrambles to face him. "Whirl! He's _your_ nemesis!"

Whirl lets his arm flop to the side. "Just - give me - five seconds. I'll be right there," he promises, weakly. "The spark is willing, but the frame is -" 

"HEY!" 

Starscream's spark nearly stops. He whips around, optics bulging as he sees Wheeljack waving deliberately at Killmaster. _He's going to get himself killed_. 

Then, once he has everyone's horrified, undivided attention, Wheeljack snaps his fingers and points three times. "Brainstorm. Killmaster. Nautica." Then he jabs his finger down at the computer lab beside him. "All of you. Science. Now."

The purple Camien lifts her head from where she's still collapsed on the ground, an antenna perking up on the side of her helm. "Did someone say science?" she calls, optics dancing.

For a long moment, nobody moves. Killmaster eases back on his heels, ignoring the way Skip bursts into flames as his weight crushes the fuel tanks. He strokes his horribly pointy mandibles with a hand as he squints at Wheeljack. 

Then he puts out a massive hand to the side, expectantly. 

Brainstorm sighs heavily. "Oh, fine," he mutters, reaching into his subspace and pulling out a wand that _could not possibly_ have fit inside the dimensions of his frame. He storms up, Rodimus spluttering protests in the background, and slaps the wand into Killmaster's hand. "What kind of science?" Brainstorm calls back to Wheeljack, as he walks through the crowd of Autobots and stalks up the ridge.

Wheeljack shoots them all a thumbs up. "Hopefully the explody kind. We don't have many other options, at this point," he says, ducking back down beside his terminal. "If we can teleport the planet out of the way, all the better."

Killmaster rubs his claws together. "Delightful," he says, serenely, as he follows Brainstorm.

Behind him, Skip explodes into a hundred fiery grey pieces of slag. 

Nautica scampers after them, flipping a wrench in one hand as a holographic HUD visor extends in front of her face. The rest of the _Lost Light_ crew stares at Wheeljack like he's the second coming of Primus. 

Meanwhile, Windvoice is distraught. "That's actually his name," she says, looking at Killmaster in horror as she helps the other Camien to her feet. 

Starscream snorts. "Would I really lie about something like that?"

"Yes!"

"True." Starscream pauses, then glances back at the flaming remains of Skip. The only reason he knows she's there, he suspects, is because she wants him to know. "And Arcee. The party's all here," he says, ironically, as Arcee walks out from behind the crashed ship. 

She looks sour as she stares longingly at Killmaster's back, then folds her energy blades away with clear regret at the missed opportunity. "Hid it a little better than I thought," she says, walking right over a heap of fiery fuselage to reach Windvoice. She reaches into her subspace and Starscream tenses automatically; she draws something out, too small for Starscream to immediately identify it, and tosses it underhand to Windvoice without stopping. "Here."

Windvoice catches it, supporting the other Camien by the waist as she frowns at the device in her hands. Then her face lights up in shock. "But wait a minute - isn't this -"

Arcee sails right along without looking back. "You have more of a use for it than I ever did. I was surprised it was still there, to be honest."

"What is it?" Starscream demands, as Windvoice turns the device over in her hands. It appears to be little more than a simple golden plug, etched with glyphs that render it almost uselessly decorative. 

Of course Windvoice pops open the reinforced port in her helm and plugs it right in. Starscream doesn't know why he's surprised! This is the mech who mind-merges with Titans as a casual hobby. "Look, I know you're still new at this, but rule number one - don't stick the first thing someone hands you into your processor without checking it for explosives, first," he says, this close to genuine desperation. 

Somehow, her head doesn't immediately explode. Wonder shines in Windvoice's eyes as a six-sided visor projects in front of her face, similar to Nautica's. A modified HUD plays across the inner surface, filling Windvoice's vision with a filigree of pink light. "It's the Creation Lathe," she whispers, full of awe. She looks frantically for Arcee. "But how? It's been here, all this time?"

Arcee waves two fingers back at them as she wanders away. Starscream can't tell if she plans to head up the slope and supervise Killmaster or not. "Didn't spend all my time running around killing people," she says, her tone reminiscent. "It was a long time ago."

The other Camien rests a cautious hand on Windvoice's shoulder, her yellow optics shining as she watches Windvoice's face with keen interest. Windvoice shakes her head as the Creation Lathe sketches lines and curves of light along her peripherals, too. When she looks down at the ground, at Cybertron itself, her mouth brightens in an irrepressible smile. When she speaks, her voice trembles. "I see. I can see - it's so much. Thank you."

Arcee tips her head back to look at the sky, and says nothing.

"It's a fancy visor," Starscream says, flatly.

Windvoice shoots a laser-guided glare at him, her smile pinching in a micro-second. But her awe overwhelms her again a second later. "It's the visor of Solus Prime. With it, she created wonders," she explains, touching the side of her helm, and the Lathe installed there. It unfurls into a bladed flower of gold, the glyphs glinting in the sun. Now that Starscream looks more closely, he can see the resemblance between it and her new giant hammer - the way the tiny glyphs twine together and overlap, forming new words from different angles. 

Then she straightens her shoulders, her face set with determination. "And I can see where I need to go," she says, staring hard at the ground beneath their feet.

So. She still plans to go and get herself killed.

Starscream vents a heavy, put-upon sigh, and glances wistfully at the sky. "Fine. Let's get this over with," he grumbles, folding his arms.

It takes her a second. Windvoice blinks. "Wait - you - you are _not_ coming with me," she says, staring at him like he's grown a second head. 

Starscream waves a hand airily. " _Someone_ has to go with you," he says, silkily. "Do you have a plan for dealing with bomb bunkers? With toxic gas pockets? With scraplet hordes? With leftover cyberweapon contamination? With whatever war drones and sparkeaters are still creeping around down there?" When Windvoice continues to glare at him, mute and increasingly dour, he nods. "I think you underestimate just how badly this dump is falling apart."

Besides, it's not like he has anything better to do. Might as well keep an eye on his future replacement.

She narrows her eyes, then turns her glare down at the ground. "No. I can see it all, now," she mutters, eyeing the planet like it's personally betrayed her. Then she transforms, so abruptly Starscream has to stagger back out of the way of her ridiculous flippy movements. "Let's go."

As she peels off into the sky, Starscream sighs. At least she's headed in the right direction for the only way down to Vector Sigma he knows of. He takes wing, enjoying the thrum of his new engines as he prepares to gun past her out of spite.

"Don't kill each other! Come back safe!" Wheeljack yells after them.

If his hands were still free, Starscream would wave back. "Yes, yes, Wheeljack. For you."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go. Hover over Greek for extremely plot relevant translations.

\---

_What is the Forge?_

_The star at the heart of the world._

_I hope to see it, some day._

\- Solus Prime, <<Camien Thought Fragment 611>>

\---

Traveling down to the core of a planet takes time. If they could fly in a straight line, this would be a breeze - but the underside of Cybertron is a warren of buried war bunkers and abandoned mine shafts and hollow cave systems worn away by rust and other corrosive factors. Anyone looking at Cybertron from above sees only the reformatted surface: scarred, barren, but whole.

The inside is a different story.

They're six hours in, and the comm network signal to the surface fades in and out as several thousand kilometers of metal crust and mantle bury them in darkness. Starscream's frame adjusts incrementally to the pressure shift as they delve deeper and deeper, and their biolights brighten automatically to help light the path. But he can't do anything about the instinctive claustrophobia that begins to press in on him the second their passage turns and the sky vanishes behind the spindly, ragged layers of metal. 

They leap from one spire of metal to another to descend through hollow cavities with relatively little effort; a ground-bound mech would have to take a much more roundabout path. This is the path Galvatron took to reach the core a few years ago; it weaves through the uneven fissure between two long-dead continental plates, along the most solid path left. But Galvatron wasn't afraid to punch even bigger holes to move faster, and his careless destruction left pitfalls that deteriorated further still over the years without any upkeep.

Despite Starscream's warnings, the worse they've encountered so far is some feral vermin. Occasionally, a spit of metal that looks solid crumbles under their weight; they fly to the next without pause, while the flimsy metal tumbles down into the swallowing dark.

Windvoice shivers. Her fancy new visor provides most of the light. Starscream reluctantly concedes that Solus's (alleged) visor makes navigating Cybertron's underside much easier. Like one of Wheeljack's holotools, brilliant pink lines project from Windvoice to outline the torn, serrated edges of the caverns. 

When she speaks, it's in a whisper. "It's so still. So -"

"Decrepit?" Starscream suggests.

Windvoice hops to the next level down and presses a hand to the scored side of the tunnel. She stares at the readout on her HUD, her expression rapt but tinged with sadness in the gloom. "Empty. Hollow." She splays her fingers out. "Like everything's been leached away - all the resources, all the heat. All that's left is dead metal. A hundred thousand layers of hollow planet."

What did she expect? Starscream steps off his latest foothold and drops, wings flare out behind him as he falls in root mode. "Told you so."

With a grunt, she hurries after him. "This is the only path down to the core?"

"The only one everyone knows about. Most of the other passages collapsed, or are riddled with traps." Their voices echo weirdly as they fall past the wide mouth of a massive cavern. It makes Starscream sound more bitter than he really is. "Galvatron blasted his way down this one, and Prime went after him. It's as safe as a rusted bucket of bolts." And twice as stable, he's sure.

Windvoice's tone shifts as she consults the elaborate light lattice of her new toy. "Yes. This is the fastest way through the mantle," she says, slowly, as she interprets the data it feeds to her. Starscream doubts that some million-year-old visor can provide better data than what they already have, but whatever. He tried to read that nonsense once, backwards, through the transparency of the visor, but the math alone looks like the same elaborate, winding nonsense engraved onto the hammer. 

"It's so cold," she says, her voice quiet in the dark.

\---

_Backstreet's back - alright!_

\- Backstreet of Kaon, <<Earth's Greatest Hits, Cover Album Vol. 5>>

\---

"Will he help? Like, at all?" Wheeljack asks, in an undertone. 

Between the two of them, Nautica and Brainstorm have disassembled half the innards of Wheeljack's slapped-together radio-plasma wave instrument and started repurposing it for what Brainstorm refers to as a double-death gun. Wheeljack had to talk him down from a 'death of the author' cannon that can shoot through walls both literal and metaphorical, since that sounded like bad idea just waiting to happen. Whirl's optic lit up with anticipation at the mere mention of it.

The fact that Brainstorm already thought up multiple blueprints for hypothetical guns intended to kill death itself surprises absolutely no one. "Learned my lesson after the Dead Universe thing," Brainstorm says, nodding sagely. Then he and Nautica go off on a tangent about the pros and cons of postmodern scientific advancement and its potential uses in the field of existential weaponry, and Wheeljack gives quiet, feverish thanks that he never joined the _Lost Light_ crew. Sure, they've probably learned more about quantum generators than any Cybertronian currently alive, but _at what cost._

So Wheeljack sticks to what he knows - tweaking what he recognizes to make it more efficient, offering suggestions as needed, passing Brainstorm whatever obscure bits and parts he needs from other disemboweled terminals, and doing his level best to keep Brainstorm and Nautica from accidentally-on-purpose ripping a hole in the fabric of space-time in the process of constructing the weapon. Someone needs be the voice of reason around here.

He'd really hoped that Killmaster would come up with something else by now. While Wheeljack can admit that shooting Unicron _does_ sound like a hell of a lot of fun, Killmaster's specialty is bi-locational weaponry and teleportation. He disappeared without a trace late in the war, but the last Wheeljack heard his work was the basis for the Galactic Council's geobombs. If anyone can teleport the entire planet out of Unicron's path, it's him.

Mostly, he's just loitering at the edge of the ridge and staring dramatically out across the Sea. Silent. Foreboding. Not participating. He's been at it for almost a day, and they're running out of time. More helpful than him attacking everyone, but still.

Nautica grimaces. "Him not killing us _is_ helpful."

"He's been a pain in our aft ever since we left the Necroworld. Stop questioning it," Brainstorm advises. 

Too little, too late. Wheeljack shrugs and tugs open the panel of the main receiver hub and starts unstringing it to get the cables Brainstorm needs. 

And Killmaster breaks his silence.

"Ah. I see now. A singularity, produced by an attempt to collapse all of time and space, and emulate the primordial birth of the universe by reducing reality to a point of infinite density and temperature," Killmaster muses. As he tips his head to the side, he taps his sparking wand against his shoulder. It cycles through other forms with each tap - a tiny, subtle knife; a rusted Earth radio antenna; an icy blue hammer four times his size; a golden staff tipped with a swirling green sphere - before cycling back to the wand. "And no one dealt with it, all this time? Irresponsible of them."

"You are so weird. I've told you that before, right?" Whirl says. He's recovered from his earlier exhaustion and positioned himself between Killmaster and the rest of the group, lounging with his legs crossed and his arms folded under his cockpit.

Killmaster taps the wand against his mouth. "Hush, my nemesis. Patience."

"We _really_ need to focus on the energy transmission," Wheeljack reminds him, elbow-deep in the wires of their machine. It hasn't worked the past five times he tried to coax Killmaster into helping, but it's worth a shot. 

"Yeah, basically that was Shockwave's plan," Brainstorm says, distractedly. He pats around blindly on top of the nearest desk to reach for a screwdriver. After a few failed attempts, he finally glances up to actually look for it. "Shockwave decided to fuel the planet with the entire universe, because he lost his mi- _OH NO_." 

Killmaster raises his wand. 

With a yell, Nautica lunges at him, her wrench raised over her head. Whirl, marginally closer, charges forward.

Too late. Killmaster points it directly at the singularity, and fires. A bolt of brilliant green lightning bursts from the wand and shoots past the smoking remnants of Skip to pierce the singularity.

It explodes. 

"Next time, you invite Killmaster," Killmaster says, twirling his wand dismissively as the world unravels. 

-

And reravels, a moment later. 

Wheeljack is two meters to the left of where he originally knelt, with a fistful of neatly severed wires in his grip; Brainstorm clutches the screwdriver to his chest for dear life, flat on his back, wheezing through his cheek vents. Nautica finishes swinging her wrench, but while Killmaster is exactly where he stood originally, she's turned around 180 degrees and hits nothing but air. Whirl shrieks in belated rage from inside the shell of Wheeljack's largest, jury-rigged radio telescope.

"How did you _not_ move?" Nautica demands, fascinated. 

Killmaster clacks his teeth in a churning laugh. "I always know precisely where I need to be. It's the _when_ that's sometimes...tricky," he says. He turns and eyes Brainstorm with burning optics and a grin that Wheeljack is afraid to label flirtatious for many, many reasons.

Two figures stand where the singularity used to punch a hole in the air: one familiar, the other _horribly_ familiar. 

A mech painted electric green and blue glances around with a single optic, steaming slightly as he steps off the platform. He appears entirely unaffected by the sudden, space-warping explosion that just rippled through reality.

He's holding an energon cube with a tiny umbrella and a curly straw.

"Well, well, well," Shockwave says, passing his companion the cube. "I suppose my vacation is over."

Bumblebee faints.

-

WJ: Starscream.  
SS: -- away --  
WJ: Uh.   
WJ: Good news?   


\---

_Nothing lasts forever, not even the best machines. And **everything** can be reused. _

_-_ Solus Prime, writing as [Hephaestus ](http://tfwiki.net/wiki/Solus_Prime#Fun_Publications), <<[The Lost Hero](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/311599-nothing-lasts-forever-not-even-the-best-machines-and-everything)>>

\---

By the time they reach the door, they're well into the thirteenth and final day. Neither of them are inclined to stop and recharge, down here in the suffocating darkness, but the core itself is a maze of corridors that lead nowhere that takes time to navigate. Windvoice stops occasionally despite their impending deadline to touch the wall, the dark metal of her face pale as she informs Starscream she can feel bodies buried in the walls.

Lovely.

When they finally reach Vector Sigma's chamber, Starscream isn't exactly brimming with confidence. He's hoping that Windvoice will come to her senses, and he can drag her back up to the surface and get off the planet with minimal fuss. 

The vast, dull golden surface of Cybertron's central super computer hangs silently in the middle of the chamber, all of its terminal screens dark and its heavy connection cables dangling uselessly. A thin layer of dust lays over everything, including the scorch marks and other signs of the struggle that happened here. It's a pathetic sight; Starscream kicks his foot through the grime, wrinkling his nose. There's not enough light to make out the details, but he's sure his brand-new frame is filthy after clambering through all the slagged ruins to get down here. "Voilà. Vector Sigma. In all its slagged, ignoble glory," he says, folding his arms. He watches with narrowed eyes as Windvoice walks forward. 

She turns in a slow circle as she backs toward Vector Sigma. Her optics are wide behind the hexagonal visor; she starts pointing toward the outer shell of the chamber with flashes of insight. "The synthesis layers - over there. The crystal formation sectors. The convection gears, to lift up new layers from the core to the surface." She spins in another circle, her wings canted downward in grief as she comes to a stop. The hammer of Solus Prime glows softly against her back, the white-hot glow at the center of the hammer head weirdly muted in the dark. "It's all so quiet."

She's taking this far too personally. Starscream drums his fingers against his arms, grimacing around the dark chamber. If there's a convenient teleport pad somewhere down here, he doubts it has any power left. "What are you looking for? Let's hurry this up and get back to the surface. This place gives me the creeps," he insists. He casts a quick look back the way they came, but even his proximity sensors can't detect much in the gloom of the center of the planet.

After a moment's pause, Windvoice raises her hand and points without looking up. "Above Vector Sigma. In the very center," she says, with growing certainty. She lifts her head as she walks right up to the base of Vector Sigma, her steps echoing. "Can you hear it? Someone is always singing."

Someone? Starscream bristles, alarm instantly putting him on edge. As far as his sensors were concerned, there's literally nothing down here. Even Vector Sigma itself has drained all its power away. "I don't hear anything," he says, waspishly, stalking toward Windvoice. If she's hearing something he can't -

Before he reaches her, she slides into her alt mode, just long enough to dart up in a streak of blue through the gap between Vector Sigma's hanging processor and the open ceiling. She wanders out of sight the instant she touches down. "Oh, for the love of - slow down!" Starscream hisses, lurching after her with a burst of his thrusters. 

The pink motes of light projected from her visor light up the rim of the ceiling, so he lands without knocking into anything. The sounds of their ventilation systems and engines echo even louder in this new space - wider and more open than Vector Sigma's actual chamber.

... _Much_ wider. Starscream tilts back, scrambling to scan the entire open space before him, and nearly lands flat on his aft when he sees just how high it reaches overhead. This chamber is _enormous_ ; it easily dwarfs the super computer room below a hundred times over. They could fly laps around it, easily. All of it is as dark and empty as the rest of the core, except for the play of Windvoice's lattice projected over the inner walls. 

On the floor at the very center, several meters away from them, lays a crumpled frame. 

Maybe they _were_ singing, at some point in the distant past. The mech has clearly been dead and greyed for longer than they've been alive -

"Oh," Windvoice says, softly. "Oh."

\- except. Except, Starscream remembers, in dawning horror: ancient corpses dissolve into inert _sentio metallico._ During the war, it was easy to forget - they melted down most Decepticon corpses to repair the living for lack of resources. But a body as old as this one should have crumbled into dust ages ago.

"What is it?" he says, scanning the impossible frame for himself as Windvoice takes a hesitant step toward the body. He thinks they died in alt mode, but the alt mode itself is a fragging mystery: he thinks he can see an exposed spark chamber from here, and that's just not right. What idiot would run around baring their spark for all the world to see? "Fix it, or shoot it?"

"Oh," Windvoice mumbles again, mostly to herself. Slag her, of _all_ the times to get distracted -

Not just _a_ spark chamber. Multiple spark chambers. The alt mode is covered in them, all guttered and empty, and from the very center of the body, a thin antenna extends toward the surface above. Starscream strains his sensors, and makes out a thin recharge cord, linking the mech's frame to the chamber itself. 

"I didn't look up," Windvoice says. She follows the light of the Creation Lathe from the nexus of the dead mech on the ground to the ceiling, and back again.

She sounds spark broken.

It clicks. "They sent the transmission," Starscream says. It's so obvious, now - some bizarre mech with multiple sparks stuck in their frame, draining power from the core. Transmitting energy, not just to the moons, but beyond that -

He activates a gun and raises it, though it won't do any good. Didn't Wheeljack say it was already too late? Unicron kept coming even after the energy signal shifted frequencies and Wheeljack redirected it. Shooting this random, ancient old fragger won't do a shred of good.

But it'll be _very_ satisfying. 

"Don't!" Windvoice yells, her eyes wide with alarm. She throws herself between him and the body; Starscream curses and stops the integrated weapon from firing at the last second. 

"Get out of the way!" he snaps, glaring past her. For once in their lives, he _doesn't_ want to shoot her, and this is the thanks he gets?

"We can't!" she says. Her voice cracks. She looks wretched, her expression a maelstrom of grief and realization. "I can see everything, now. I _understand_."

Starscream is ready to scream. So he does. "Do you know how to fix this stupid planet or not?!" he yells, his shriek reverberating through the chamber in screeching echoes.

And Windvoice smiles at him, tight-lipped and quiet. Like she's holding back a sob. 

It knocks something loose inside Starscream's chest, and he takes a step back, full of low, sinking dread.

Windvoice shakes her head as she takes the Forge off her back, glancing back at the dead mech with bright optics. "We can't fix it," she says, simply. "I don't think we ever could. There's only one smith who can." 

Despite a lifetime of disappointment, Starscream flinches. He flings his arm out, wildly. "Who, then?!" If she claims this corpse is supposed to do it, he's going to lose the rest of his glitched mind.

Windvoice turns the hammer over in her palms and traces the glyphs on the other side of the handle. "[σιδεράς]. Unicron. After all this time," she says.

The name doesn't make Starscream vomit when she says it. But it's a close call. Solus's hammer mocks them silently, [κάμῑνος] and [σιδεράς], entwined in glyphs between Windblade's fingers. 

He stands there, stock still, feeling weirdly disjointed and distant from his frame as Windvoice turns. Her shoulders straighten, braced with implacable resolve. "Unicron is coming to reforge the world. Cybertron called, and Unicron answered."

It takes a few attempts before Starscream finds his voice; he stutters and clicks uselessly before spitting it out. "So you want to just let that thing eat our planet for breakfast?! That's your plan!" he says, his voice breaking horribly. 

"I think it's the only way. You said it yourself, Starscream. Cybertron is dead." Windvoice stops beside the crumpled body and cycles a shuddering vent as she reaches down to brush her hand over the spark chamber at the very top. She swallows. "And all that's left of Vector Sigma reached out to the one thing in the universe that could bring it back to life."

Well. If nothing else, he still has more firepower than her.

Starscream tightens up his stance, armor clamped close to his frame as he aims between Windvoice's shoulders. "If you think I won't go through you," he says, tightly, "you're wrong."

She spins around and glares at him, livid. "Starscream, for once in your life, listen to me! I'm trying to help!" she yells, knocking her hand against her chest. Her eyes stream with emotion behind the pink visor, as dark a blue as Starscream has seen them since Vigilem left her. "Trust me," she says, with a bitter, sarcastic twist in her mouth. 

He wants to hate her so much more than he does. It would make this easy. 

For the first time, Starscream is very aware of the absence of Bumblebee at his back. So much for that.

He lowers his arm and lets it bang against his side, staring daggers back at Windvoice. "You'd better be right," he says, voice clipped short.

The disbelief on her face? Worth it. Always worth it. 

He averts his eyes out of the goodness of his spark when Windvoice breaks into a wobbly, wet smile; it's just embarrassing for both of them, and he refuses to acknowledge that it's happening. He takes another uneven step back and folds his arms, turning aside.

Then, with a sharp nod, Windvoice spins back to the transmitter and unplugs them from the floor. After shifting them aside with a grunt, she steps back and swings the hammer up over her head. 

She slams it down, hilt first, into the indent in the chamber floor, and the chamber bursts into a shock of radiant light. Starscream's optics give a pang at the sudden brightness and forcibly dim as he shields them with his hand. The bright, pulsing light at the center of Forge's head burns like a miniature star - like a _spark_ \- and lines of coruscating pink race down along the transmitter's body through the floor and up along the walls in a shining cascade. 

This time, when the energy transmission feeds through the room, Starscream's close enough to feel it fry half the paint nanites on his armor. It's like an instant sunburn. 

Windblade stands back from her work, unfazed. "Let's get out of here," she says, lit from behind by the unearthly glow of the Forge.

-

"Where _are_ we going? What with you condemning Cybertron to the smelter, and all?" Starscream asks, snottily, once they're far enough from the Forge that his spark stops pounding.

Windvoice smiles. Her visor is full of stars. "Somewhere new."

-

(Behind them, someone stirs.)

\---

_Megatronus. I need you to do something for me._

_Caminus. I'm sorry._

_-_ Solus Prime of Caminus, to Megatronus of the Darklands <<[ERROR: Memory file corrupted. Restoration at 28%]>>

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Killmaster: [I DO THIS.](https://youtu.be/_1jGnFt78H8?t=17m36s)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow the musical note for some sick beats to listen for the last section. Really sets the mood I'm going for.

\---

_ [Welcome, Death.] _

\- Vector Sigma through Vivere of the Core, to Unicron.

\---

"Where _have_ you been?" Wheeljack finally asks Shockwave.

He's been a little distracted up until now, what with Unicron looming in the sky like a new, massive, leering moon, growing larger with each passing second. Death is at least 80% mouth by volume, and that's terrifying. While Brainstorm, Nautica, Killmaster, and Shockwave work on their own projects, Wheeljack excuses himself in favor of finding warm blankets and a cup of mulled engex for Bumblebee. Just so he can have something _normal_ to work on.

Rodimus and his squad accepted Shockwave's explanation - that the two of them lay trapped in the singularity, neither dead nor alive, this entire time - with disturbing ease. Wheeljack is never ever going near the _Lost Light._ Ever. He'd rather focus on normal, sane things, like patting Bumblebee on the back while he sits heavily on the ground and wheezes his way through another panic attack. Every time Bumblebee stands up and tries to walk around, he runs into solid objects because he expects his body to be incorporeal.

It's causing, as they say in the Earth business, one hell of a midlife crisis. But at least Bumblebee's alive to have it.

Meanwhile, Shockwave narrows his optic in an empuratee's smile, unruffled and perfectly at ease with his return to the land of the living. Hearing emotion in his voice - even something as mild as calm amusement - gives Wheeljack the heebie-jeebies. The Shockwave who came out of the singularity is not the same as the Shockwave who spent millions of years operating on implacable logic. "Oh, around. Relaxing. Contemplating my life," he says, trimming the end of a bundle of wires and twining them with his new instrument with the tranquility of a human shaping a bonsai. Killmaster assists him with lifting the next segment of their project on top of the towering structure they've already constructed. "That whole Ore thing. Not my most coherent work."

"No kidding," Brainstorm mutters under his breath.

It's more of an answer than Wheeljack thought he'd get. Shaking his head, he switches gears. "And you, Bumblebee?"

Bumblebee lays flat on the ground, his expression dazed as he adjusts to corporeality. "Haunting Starscream," he says, resting his hands on his chest. When Wheeljack chokes on his own ventilation cycle, Bumblebee laughs. "What? It was something to do. I could never convince him I was real, though."

Wheeljack suspects he owes Starscream an apology. For...something. He can't say he's familiar with the protocol for this kind of weirdness, but 'sorry I didn't realize you were being haunted by a quantum ghost and thought you were losing your mind from stress' probably covers a lot of ground. How they're gonna explain this to the Council of Worlds, Wheeljack can't even begin to imagine. "And you've both been alive inside the singularity this whole time? That is some weird quantum scrap on a level I cannot even begin to fathom."

Bumblebee nods, with the long-suffering expression of someone who's only had Starscream to interact with for a small eternity. "Tell me about it."

"Hey, uh, Shockwave," Nautica says, hesitantly. She slides her visor back from her face and waves her wrench in Shockwave's general direction. Of all of them, she has the least experience with Shockwave, and is therefore the least freaked out by his rampant emoting.

"Yes, Nautica?" Shockwave says, placidly, as he turns that quiet smile on her.

She taps her wrench against her cheek, then points it back at the huge metal spire Shockwave and Killmaster have put together. The wrench emits a series of adorable beeps as it scans the structure. "Is it just me, or are you making something that isn't _actually_ a giant Unicron-repelling laser?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," Shockwave says, cool as the metaphorical Earth cucumber, and hands Killmaster another signal booster.

Oh no.

Wheeljack steps around Bumblebee, holding up his hands in a T as he stares at Shockwave's work in mounting realization. He kicks Brainstorm's shoulder until the other scientists glances up from his much small death ray. "Okay, no, back up. You and Killmaster - what the frag are you even working on?!" Wheeljack asks.

"The future, of course," Shockwave says. His optic expression verges on something practically... _Whirl-like._

"Something far more intellectually stimulating than a laser," Killmaster adds. His version of a placid smile could give a grown mech nightmares.

Then Shockwave shuts the panel on the side of his massive signal boosting array and activates it.

Wheeljack's last intact terminal whistles a warning as another energy transmission pulses beneath the surface of Cybertron. He slowly raises his hands and clutches his head as the transmission beams up through the planet.

Instead of scrambling the signal, like Wheeljack has been all this time, Shockwave's machine accepts the energy transmission - and magnifies it.

A ray of pink light, so bright it almost whites out Wheeljack's sensors, roars up through the sky and shoots directly at Unicron. Instead of exploding, Unicron shudders as the energy transmission ripples across its surface...and speeds up. All the shifting, roiling blades of its surface flare at once as Death zeroes in on its target.

Bumblebee lets his hand slap against the floor with a sad _clank_. Nautica presses her wrench against her mouth, eyes wide.

"You'd really think we'd know better by now," Brainstorm comments.

"This is the end," Shockwave says. His optic burns and burns as he stares hungrily at the sky. "The circuit is complete. All that is left is for us to stand aside, and witness."

Wheeljack blinks. He glances around. Everyone appears to be frozen in horror or, in Shockwave and Killmaster's case, anticipation.

Er. "...No, I think we should probably get to the ship," Wheeljack hints. When no one immediately responds, he reaches down to haul Bumblebee to his feet. Then he reaches over and snaps his fingers in front of Brainstorm's mask until the scientist twitches out of his science stupor. "We should _definitely_ get to the ship," he adds, more firmly, as he shakes Bumblebee until he focuses.

"Good call," Nautica says, faintly.

Overhead, the energy beam reaches out and draws Unicron closer.

-

They reach the surface with mere hours to spare.

Unicron fills the entire sky.

Naturally, everything has gone to the Pit in Starscream's absence. He can't leave the slagging planet alone for five minutes without some genius _resurrecting Shockwave_ and setting him loose on the world. Really! Who the frag thought _that_ was a clever idea?! Because he's going to mount them to the front of the ship and use them as a shield against space debris for the next century as soon as he gets his hands on them.

He and Windvoice race to the shuttle Wheeljack took to return to Cybertron, and find it crammed full of loud, obnoxious, excitable _Autobots._

Whatever. "Don't look at me. I quit," Starscream mutters irritably, elbowing between Roller and Ultra Magnus to try to escape when Rodimus starts nattering on about some fresh nonsense. Apparently, Skip was beyond repair, to the surprise of literally no one with half a brain module, and so the _Lost Light_ crew kind of needs a lift to avoid their imminent demise, and Starscream's ship is _right here,_ so if he wouldn't mind -

"Quit...everything?" Wheeljack says, when Starscream runs into him and rams his face into Wheeljack's chest. This tactic stymies Rodimus for a full five seconds of blissful silence before he starts _talking_ again.

"Yes, actually," Starscream says, muffled. Wheeljack automatically lifts a hand and supports the back of Starscream's head; Starscream lets himself sag a little. The Camiens have absorbed Windvoice whole, apparently - she vanishes into their corner of the very, very overcrowded shuttle as someone near the steering wheel finally starts the engine.

"Huh," Bumblebee says, on Wheeljack's left side. He smiles wryly at Starscream when Starscream gives him the middle finger and flicks Starscream's hand away. Then, after a long pause - "You know, I thought you'd be more surprised about this."

Starscream lifts his head away from Wheeljack to glower at him properly.

Bumblebee raises his brow and pokes Starscream with the end of his stupid cane.

The impact knocks Starscream back. He stumbles - and freezes, staring at Bumblebee. He presses his hand to his chest and looks Bumblebee up and down. For a moment, he feels deeply offended by the way Bumblebee's very solid feet tap against the floor.

"What the absolute frag," he says, at last.

"You were never hallucinating. Bumblebee and Shockwave were just astral projecting from the singularity. Shockwave has apparently been living it up in Blurr's bar under a false name," Wheeljack says. His optics scrunch in an encouraging smile as he takes Starscream's hand and squeezes it reassuringly.

He's trying to be helpful. Probably.

Starscream presses his hands to his face. All that emerges from his mouth is a strangled, high-pitched screech.

"There there, Starscream." Bumblebee hops down from his seat with a noticeable thud and strolls off into the crowd. The whole shuttle rumbles and judders as it struggles to lift off the ground; it's probably way over its maximum weight capacity. He waves at Wheeljack. "He's all yours."

\---

_[♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2OqigCz2S1w) _

\- <<unknown>>

\---

Starscream considers kicking the _Lost Light_ crew off his ship to ride with Vigilem for approximately thirty seconds.

On second thought, no. Absolutely not.

Starscream goes instead. When Shockwave shows up at the shuttle bay doors, expecting to hitch a ride after Killmaster ditches him, it's simply the last straw.

-

Windvoice gives the evacuation fleet a set of galactic coordinates, complete with compensation for how much their destination will have moved relative to them by the time they reach it. With the Creation Lathe, she maps out the dimensions of Unicron's killing field - and then looks beyond that, to the stars, and knows exactly where to go. The fleet obeys with a perturbing lack of argument, fleeing orbit as Unicron closes in on Cybertron like an inevitable force of nature.

Starscream politely doesn't mention it when an unmarked cruiser pulls up alongside Metroplex and lingers there. As long as Chromia keeps Arcee occupied before they restart their search for Liege Maximo, he's not saying anything.

Only the two Titans in shipmode and Starscream's infested flagship stay to watch. Belatedly, Rodimus is seized by the heroic impulse to Do Something about Unicron - only to be informed that Cybertron itself is completely enveloped in the death aura, and he would be killed instantly.

This does not deter him. It takes three people to sit on him and prevent him from ejecting out the cargo bay door to meteor surf down to the planet's surface, or something equally idiotic.

Autobots.

Unicron flexes one more time. It does not turn aside to pursue any of the Cybertronian ships fleeing the planet; the light of the Forge draws it in without wavering. From a safe distance, it's truly a gut punch to see how immense Unicron is in comparison to Cybertron: the hungry planet shed most of its rocky shell on its voyage, and now gleams like an organic carapace in the light of the distant sun: black and silver and blue and gold, its exterior plates constantly reshuffling in an endless cycle of subduction and resurrection. Its arching, segmented horns fit perfectly around the circumference of Cybertron, as though they were made for exactly this.

Cybertron's dead, greyed surface begins to decay, melting not just from the heat of Unicron's open smelter but from some other, creeping force.

Trypticon takes off at what must be the last possible second. Red-orange engines fire up in the dark side of Cybertron where night has fallen, and the third and final Titan left on the planet bursts through the atmosphere with ragged, patchwork wings. Unaffected by Unicron's aura, which has slowly begun to disintegrate the outer crust of Cybertron, his space bridge activates with a burst of purple - and he's gone.

[What an interesting fellow,] Vigilem murmurs.

"Don't even think about it," Starscream says, flatly.

Smoothly, inexorably, Unicron eats Cybertron whole. A few drips of molten metal the size of cities drift away before Unicron's teeth close down around the planet. The seething light of the Forge burns until the very end.

Unicron falls still at last. Digesting.

[We leave now,] Vigilem says, with a rumble as he rearranges his internals. [If I have to sit here and feel Metroplex weep for a single second longer, I refuse to be held accountable for my actions.]

-

They leave and catch up with the rest of the fleet in short order.

On their sensors, Unicron rotates in place where Cybertron used to be - and follows them.

Windvoice insists that this is all part of the plan. She spends much of her time coaxing Metroplex along, with the assistance of three very intimidated cityspeakers in addition to Lightbright. Starscream begrudgingly takes advantage of the situation as an excuse to fly between the two Titans under his own power, stretching his wings and luxuriating in the sensation of his new, freshly-cleaned frame. He considers poisoning the energon he takes Windvoice (just a little!) to teach her a lesson, but, well. He rather needs to be on her good side, considering the fact that she's probably going to rule Cybertron when this is all over, and Wheeljack would disapprove. Metroplex's processor chamber is a scrambled mess of vague, incomprehensible mourning in addition to the usual system alerts from his still damaged frame, and Starscream has to forcibly drag Windvoice away from grieving with him to visit the people throughout the fleet and reassure them with her presence.

Half of them don't even recognize Starscream, in his radically redesigned frame. The Decepticons do, naturally - but with Shockwave back in town, they're doing everything in their power to fly under the radar and avoid attracting his attention.

If she can't mount her own political campaign, he'll just have to prod her through it. The work's already half done for her, if she would just _pay attention_. Once he dumps her into the waiting arms of her adoring public, she does well enough - reaching out, offering hope and encouragement effortlessly, her expression determined and full of ironclad conviction as she promises them that they're going home soon. Without her painted mask, she's much more open; people turn to her like organic flowers in the sun, full of faith. She even manages to make it all sound sincere.

Then she returns to Metroplex, at the head of the fleet, and reactivates the Creation Lathe to scan the stars ahead.

When they identify their destination on the long-range scanners, Rodimus groans and sinks so far down in the stolen captain's chair that he nearly collapses on the floor. Starscream rolls his optics at the unnecessary dramatics.

The _Lost Light_ crew calls it the Necroworld. Windvoice calls it the template.

"Unbelievable. We're right back where we started," Rodimus moans. "We have made _zero progress whatsoever_."

"Hang in there, Rodimus," Deadlock says, with a rueful grin. "Might as well check on Tailgate while we're there."

-

SW: Starscream.  
SW: What did you do with Cybertron? Both Optimus and the Council insist you will not answer their comms and it appears to have vanished into thin air.  
SS: DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT.  
SW: How did you misplace an entire pla-  
SW: I see...  
SW: So that's how it is.  
SW: No.  
SW: Oh yes.  
SW: O)  
SS: I need to rinse my optics out with acid now.  
\-- Soundwave [SW] has changed tag to [SVV] --  
SVV: Please. Please desist.  
SW: O)

-

"Are you sure we can't shoot it?" Starscream mutters. Might as well ask one more time. Keeping an extremely trigger-happy population from firing on Unicron as they traveled all the way to the Necroworld took a great deal of self-control on everyone's parts. Now, with the fleet fanned out on the far side of the template world, watching Unicron advance on them once more - ugh. It would be so easy. Like hitting the broadside of a huge slagging planet.

"Yes. Very sure," Windvoice says, eyeing him suspiciously.

Starscream lounges against the window along Vigilem's side and rolls his optics at her. "They're going to elect you to replace me, you know." If she doesn't realize that already, she's glitched in the head.

She snorts at him, with a wry smile as she turns back toward the window. "What happened to 'you're the idiot who destroyed Cybertron, I refuse to take responsibility for your imminent planet-destroying rampage across the galaxy, blah blah blah'?"

Okay, alright. So he had a few doubts. And that might have been an almost word-for-word quote, complete with hand motions. Whatever. "Apparently they haven't turned on you yet. Wait for it. No one can keep everyone happy," he says, gesturing toward the ships spread out on either side of Vigilem.

"I don't really plan on running, anyway."

 _That's_ quitter talk. He shoots her a glare. "I'll nominate you if I have to. You already have my personal endorsement. Like slag are you letting Elita win. She'll bury us both."

It's not an idle threat. Elita might be biding her time for now, since they've limited what information leaks to the Council while Cybertron's future remains in flux. But Starscream knows for a fact that he and Windvoice are at the top of her to-do list - and Carcer wants their Titan back.

The fact that Vigilem chuckles - dare Starscream say it - evilly whenever Elita comes up in conversation within his body doesn't make him feel any better. They're going to be caught between Liege Maximo, Elita, the Council of Worlds, and slag only knows who else when the dust settles from Unicron, and it won't be a fun time. If they don't have a planet under their feet soon, they're fragged.

Windvoice scrunches up her nose at the reminder. "True. Thanks a lot," she says, sarcastically, stepping unsubtly on his foot. She weighs nothing compared to him now; he lifts his chin haughtily and pointedly ignores her as she hops a little, trying to make him react.

Then her tone shifts, from ironic to solemn. The visor unfurls over her optics. "It's starting."

Beneath them, the Necroworld glistens in the light of its sun with that unfortunate, unpleasantly moist look organic planets tend to have - covered in green plant matter, with brown, rocky mountains along orogenic zones and vast puddles of blue spanning the world that Starscream assumes are water oceans. Apparently, Rodimus had to take Cyclonus and few other people down to dig Tailgate out of at least thirty meters of filthy organic mud.

He wrinkles his mouth in distaste; if this is Windvoice's template, it looks a little...wet. Wheeljack has been scanning it backwards and forwards, comparing his analysis with Brainstorm's old notes, and seems to find it fascinating.

Unicron looms over it, casting a vast shadow over the upper hemisphere. Even as Starscream watches, his 'I told you so's muted until they'll have maximum impact, the wide swathes of blue start to fade under the shadow of Unicron's killing aura, and turn a translucent silver. Motes of light trickle up from the planet into Unicron's sealed mouth.

Then, with a shudder at some unheard signal, a circular, continent-sized chunk of the Necroworld's crust swivels open on metal hinges. It's metal on the inside, under all that organic muck.

Starscream's mouth pops open. Windvoice shuts it for him with her hand, her eyes too fierce to be smirking like that.

Molten metal pours from Unicron's smelter as it swivels on an internal axis and decants what remains of Cybertron into the metal template. The wave of silver continues to wash across the organic parts of the Necroworld, leaving the green plant matter and rock alone, but reducing half the blue to a dull silver as the minutes tick by.

Wheeljack draws close to the window on Starscream's other side, pulled away from his seat on the bench behind them to hold his datapad scanner closer to the scene before them. He bounces up on the tips of his feet and then subsides, his optics fixed on the Necroworld, utterly captivated.

Then he checks his screen again, and blinks. He nudges Starscream with his shoulder, with rising urgency. "Hey Starscream, uh. You might not want to look."

Starscream frowns; he starts to turn his head toward Wheeljack, but squints at Unicron and the Necroworld along the way, filled with deep foreboding. He doesn't see anything different...and yet... "Wheeljack, that's the most suspicious thing you've ever - _is that Luna-2._ "

He slams up against the window, smacking his face audibly against the glass as he stares out in horror. Wheeljack groans and shakes his head, while Windvoice jumps half a meter in the air at the sudden noise.

Luna-2 soars merrily across their field of vision, oblivious to Starscream mouthing silent curses at it from the relative safety of Vigilem's observation deck. Propelled by bright blue, circular engines, the moon glides into place on the opposite side of the Necroworld.

"And Luna-1, too." Wheeljack rubs his face. He tries to peel Starscream away from the glass, without success. "Oh, geez. We're being hailed by Prowl."

Starscream bangs his head against the window with a tiny thud. "Good. Fantastic! Maybe now Arcee will leave me to die in peace." Now that he knows to look for it, he can spy the slightly larger Luna-1 - mostly hidden behind the bulk of the Necroworld as it falls in line beside the second moon.

Then, a few moments later - "Please tell me the moons aren't transforming," he says, his voice deceptively light-hearted.

Wheeljack winces. "I _told_ you not to look -"

Starscream throws himself against the window with a shriek. "I KNEW IT!" he screams, incandescent with rage, as Luna-1 and Luna-2 shift into alt modes to better pour their own contents into the great Cybertronian stew. More metal, and crystallized materials in chunks the size of asteroids, all of it dissolving into the remains of Cybertron.

[Stop banging on the glass. I will open the windows. I won't even hesitate.]

"They've brought everything we needed," Windvoice says, as Wheeljack attempts to console Starscream as despair sets in. Her smirk turns wistful. "They've been harvesting resources, all these years. Waiting until it was time to come home." Then she narrows her eyes, standing on her tiptoes to try to see inside the Necroworld better. From where Vigilem has stationed himself in relation to the planet, it's impossible. "Um. The Lathe says there's a third moon in there, too. Why was there a moon _inside_ the template?"

The real question is, what did Starscream do to deserve a Luna-3 in his life?

Across the observation deck, Brainstorm raises a hand and waves it. "Me. Don't worry about that, it's from another universe."

They all turn and stare at him as one. On the bench beside him, Nautica just shrugs.

"Explain?" Starscream says, clinging to sanity by the very last thread of his self-control.

"It's probably smelted down by now with all that molten metal dumped on top of it. Definitely not going to be important or relevant ever again," Brainstorm adds.

When they continue to stare, he throws up his hands. "What? Stop looking at me like that. Where else was I supposed to put it?"

With a wistful sigh, Nautica rests her chin on her laced fingers. "All the spark flowers are fading," she says, to distract from the whole _alternate universe moon_ thing. "Nightbeat will be so -"

The last dregs of molten metal finish pouring from Unicron. The surface of the hungry planet ripples into a new configuration, and Starscream closes one hand into a fist. There's still time for Unicron to turn around and try to eat _them_ ; Windvoice might still be wrong. He's had a long lifetime to learn to expect the worst: the whole fleet has orders to scatter in a hundred different directions if Unicron advances on them. Only a few people even questioned whether Starscream's still technically _qualified_ to give them orders. Fear is a powerful motivator.

Then, with a warning shrill from Wheeljack's datapad, a bright, dazzling blue sun emerges from between Unicron's teeth. It whirls and pulses in the space between Unicron and the Necroworld for a long moment, the white-hot plasma of its surface seething with crackling filaments that spark between Unicron and the template and the moons. It sinks into the bubbling surface of the metal within the Necroworld, heating it further still.

"Did anyone else just see Unicron vomit up an enormous spark?" Starscream feels like he needs to check. To make sure he isn't really hallucinating, this time.

"All the energy of every spark that's ever died. Back from the Well." Windvoice rests her half-curled fingers against the glass, gently. "That's why no one can get close to Unicron. It absorbs them. Reforges them."

It's impossible enough that Starscream can't believe her. He just can't. He shakes his head, mutely, and says nothing as the lid of the Necroworld swivels back into place, hiding the molten contents from sight. Incredibly, the surface of the template hasn't begun to melt into slag from the boiling hot metal that just got poured into its hollow insides: the organic plant life continues to grow, completely unaffected by the goings-on, and the silvered continents full of spark flowers gleam in the sunlight as Unicron moves away. It looks much less wet, now, with only actual oceans lingering around the equator.

"That must involve some _incredible_ insulation. A planet sized thermos," Wheeljack murmurs.

"So how long until we have, uh - Cybertron, back, do we reckon?" Brainstorm asks, clearing his vents with an awkward cough. As if that'll make all the many, _many_ questions Starscream has about inconvenient moons go away.

"For the crust and the core and mantle inner workings to reset in the mold?" Windvoice tips her head to the side, consulting the Lathe. "Er. Approximately...two hundred thousand years. The template should be habitable until the actual planet is done."

...Starscream must have misheard her. "Two hundred thousand years," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Oh! That's really not that long a time. Cosmologically speaking," Nautica says, clapping her hands together with a bright smile.

"That's an entire planet's worth of molten metal that has to cool off; you sure that's the right estimate?" Wheeljack asks, frowning, as he walks over to consult Windvoice's readouts for himself.

Starscream contemplates the nightmare of recreating Iacon's infrastructure on the thin crust of an organic planet, and cringes internally. Then again, at least they have _a_ planet - that's more than Elita can say. "It's a start," he says, with a sigh.

"What should we call it?" Wheeljack asks, distractedly.

As if that's even a question. "New Cybertron, obviously."

Windvoice glances up at him, unimpressed. "Surely we can think of a better name than that."

"I mean, it gets the point across," Bumblebee says, with a shrug. "Better than Necroworld."

"We'll probably have to vote on it."

Starscream shudders at the thought.

Luna-1 and Luna-2 drift slowly around the Necroworld, falling into orbit with calculated precision between the two smaller, rocky satellites with the judicious application of their engines.

Silently, Unicron vanishes, gliding away through the inky black of space toward other stars.

It could have been worse. Death could have tried to say goodbye.

"So, uh," Wheeljack says, after a minute. "Who gets to call and tell Optimus?"

\---

_Blossom by blossom the spring begins._

\- Charles Algernon Swinburne, <<Atalanta in Calydon>>

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with art by the lovely [auro-isa](https://auro-isa.tumblr.com/)/[@auroisa_yah](https://twitter.com/AuroIsa_yah/status/1095580542370639872)!
> 
> Edit: [Now with sequel!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14607363/chapters/33761628)


End file.
